Mid-morning in the garden. The pungent, peppery smell of nasturtiums fills my nostrils. Vanquished at last by the frost, they have done well, flowering right into December. Their leaves, round and proud a few weeks ago are now oddly deformed in a melted, soaking look.
Sleet falls in slushy drops, white dusting on the hills. Geese fly overhead, cry their wild and raw calls. Hearing them always takes my heart. I have such a fondness for these beautiful birds, they fascinate me, the size of them, their gentle eyes, their exquisite greyness and the melancholy beauty of their flight.
Here and there some leaves are still intact. Vast amounts of cold rain and hail have destroyed most of them, now breaking down to feed the earth and continue their cycle.
Incredibly, a full blossom lingers in the hydrangea bush, fallen bright pink in the glistening brown.
The adorable tips of daffodils and crocuses are poking out, sweet little noses just out to take a deep breath, after spending last Summer preparing for next Spring.
This is the time of year when I start watching my step in the spongy moss garden: hidden beneath the green carpet, the little tips are coming up unseen. I feel so sad when I hear them crunching under my weight.
The birch tree is graceful, jewelled with beads of crystal dew—nature’s own fairy lights.
At dusk I hear the deer stamping right through the field; jump! They land in the woods, flying, barely touching the leaves. I wonder if a fox is around. There is a strange noise, like an animal trying to clear its nose. Or is it the horse? The donkey? A stag? I will never know.
There is a sense of mystery in early Winter.
Autumn passes so fast, glorious flurry of colours. The pace is dizzying, exuberant, yet invites increasing calm and quiet reflection.
Then one day, a storm. Showers of leaves, everything changes overnight.
The woods become solemn temples of sharp and monochromatic contrasts. Dark brown glistening against cold grey. Intricate shapes of branches infinitely refined until they melt into pale sky. Dark leaves. Dark earth. It is all so soothing to the mind, the rich smell of the forest floor, friendly, rejuvenating.
Sunset. The frost sets in early, grass crunches underfoot, sky aglow with crimson and orange. For a few minutes, the hills are bright red and glow through the forest, then all turns dark and still. The stars will appear soon to twinkle on the icy night.
We wake to a white scene of crystal and glitter. A montbretia flower, surprised, preserved intact in a layer of frost, sparkles in the sun.
Lady’s mantle wears a crown of white.
The sun looks enormous, diffused by the mist, dwarfing the horse and the donkey to miniature toy size.
The water bucket has trapped leaves in a luminous coffin of ice so thick it is unbreakable.
Even before the leaves of Autumn fell, next year’s buds were already formed, now glistening on bare trees: the matt black of ash buds, the green buds of sycamore, the tight copper buds of birch…
High above the hills, sky says “forget-me-not.”
