The eighth day

I went to the garden early this morning. The grasses were bejewelled with dew and there was frost on the leaves. Although the garden is becoming more open it is becoming quieter, resting in the winter cold. The birds were silent today. White clouds drifted, drifted in the blue sky.

And yet, even before winter has properly set in, already there are new buds on bare branches.

The seventh day

The garden's owner came around the corner, whistling cheerily and bearing wicker baskets of bulbs. The talk was gentle - of mulch and winter and bulbs and the exquisite shadows the bare trees are casting at this time of year.

Being here and taking photographs is like a walking meditation. Have I said that before?

As I left, Tiny was guarding her garden and the precious vessels of spring.

The sixth day

I went to the garden seeking solace and solace is what I found. As the leaves drifted soundlessly to the ground a magpie sang. It gazed at me inquisitively until its attention was caught by a cockatoo flying overhead.

A fragile nest is now exposed. The garden has become more and more open as the trees are left bare by the approaching winter. A small wind caused the branches of the pine tree to bend and sigh.

The turned earth is rich and dark and smells of promises that will be kept.