The cycle of life.

Sunflowers are dying. Butterflies will disappear until next year.
The garden, paths, and roads around the cottage are covered in tiny leaves, the world has turned orange.
The Virginia Creeper is dark magenta.
Red berries cluster on the holly.
The leaves have been falling for weeks, the trees are now bare.
The maple has dropped its rusty red leaves all over the lawn.
Five apples are rotting on the garden table.
I drove past the Wild Life Hospital yesterday.
The ferns are hanging their curly heads.
The world has turned orange
I worked solidly for twenty five years. I walked the dog and took tea in the forest.But I rarely saw the seasons change.
Dismantling my London life was not easy.
I missed the old git, I never called the flat home.
Whilst I missed my home the Battersea flat was light and airy and had The Thames running past the window. Hanging over the balcony was as close as you could get.
Walking anywhere was a treat, although never contemplative.
I arrived home.
After acclimating, as the yanks would say, after unpacking and putting away my duplicate life, I finally started country walking.

Winter and the trees were bare.
One tree next to a huge Eucalyptus became my bench mark.
I looked to the sky and the trees canopy had gone. Not a leaf left in sight.

It was a revelation,. Vivaldi had heralded in the four seasons but I hadn’t watched the three month time scale so closely. Of course I knew that everything stopped and started but I hadn’t seen – like proper seen it.
Three months of bare trees. Cold to the touch. Ground unforgiving. The sky a patchwork of grey and more grey.
Fallow fields.
Frosty couch grass.
Three months of looking at this one empty tree.
Then spring came. Plump birds everywhere. Catching the moment when a bud pops, like trying to catch a sigh.
The smell of new leaves.
White Aconite and wild blue Scabious.
Nibbling on a new beech leaf
The hops happening.
The avenue inviting. My tree visible with lipstick marks.
Three months and the bench mark tree was turning green.

And then it was summer. Bare shoulders and sandals. Summer and the tree resplendent. Yellow Birdfoot Trefoil. Forget-me-nots. Blue Speedwell. Yellow dandelions, green nettles. Spiders webs caught in the hedgerow, three months of summer, bees, butterflies and sultry evenings. Three months. twelve weeks of Sweet Cicely.

Collecting shiny little conkers from the Horse Chestnut trees.

When the sweet chestnuts start to fall late Autumn has arrived. Those falling leaves, damp and brown, drying into an orange world.
Collecting the chestnuts for roasting in the fire. Pockets full. Boots muddy. Fuck me sounds idyllic.

Today its wintry.
Hopefully its three months of crisp cold weather.
When I’d done a whole year I punched my fist in the air, my tree saw the seasons change, heralding in each season.

When we left London I decided to learn the names of wild flowers. I know loads but obviously not all. When thick clumps of green leaves sprouted in the field. The pungent smell of garlic wafted everywhere. You don’t get wild garlic growing on the streets of Aldgate.
Garlic grows near water. Catch it right and lush green leaves appear before the fluffy white flowers. I cut enough for soup and salads and pesto. I thank the plants I take. Like a mad medicine woman. The season is short.
I missed the bluebells this year. Fucking kidney chaos. But next year, over a high style. Round a tree, past forests of wild garlic, over another style, and then a rickety wooden bridge. The smell of bluebells is almost metallic. Trees stand in a sea of blue. The season is also short. Miss the bluebells and it’s a year before the spectacle appears again.
Luckily it always does.
The garden is closing down for three months. Easy weeding in the wet earth, but no colour.
My hellebores will flower and the apple trees will think about growing again.
All the bulbs will spring out of the earth and the garden will be full of colour again.
Ain’t nature grand?.