The thirteenth day

I went to the garden on impulse today. The sky was too blue, the air too clear to resist. I noticed again the absence of birdsong there. I could hear dogs barking and the quiet murmur of the garden's owner and his helper, the occasional burst of laughter.

I moved even more slowly than usual around the garden. I didn't think about too much.

I did wonder whether there is a more beautiful name for a flower than "Winter Rose."

I wondered too at the delicate loveliness of a pure white feather caught in a branch, fluttering.

The twelfth day

Today in the garden my attention was caught by the little things.
The leaf, the fern frond, the bark.
Drops of water on the tiniest leaves.
The bud, the green shoot.
The faintest, faintest perfume.
The delicate scrawl of a spider web.
The tracery of branch shadows on the trunk of a tree.
Palest of pink blossoms.

The garden owner and I talked of how I chose what to be photographed.

"The garden tells me what to do," I said.

The eleventh day

I was in a hurry this morning. I thought I would race around the garden, take a few photos and get home as quickly as possible. When I got there though my footsteps slowed, my breath slowed. I watched a sprinkler spin and spin and slow, drops of water sparkling on ferns.

The garden's owner came to greet me and we wondered quietly as to why flowers and shrubs were blooming early. He reassured me that the geraniums had merely been cut back in order to save them from frost. Snow may come tomorrow.

A cockatoo performed acrobatics high up in the trees. It made me smile.

The tenth day

Every branch, every blade of grass, every petal on the few flowers blooming in the garden seemed bejewelled with water droplets this morning in the garden. Mist had curled itself around the village like a friendly cat and left reminders of itself everywhere in this green and grey world.

I had to content myself with stone birds as nowhere were the usual magpies, cockatoos or tiny wrens to be seen. Only in the distance could I hear the faint laughter of a kookaburra.

The ninth day

The morning was slate grey, the rain a constant companion as I walked gingerly around the garden, avoiding puddles and slippery pavers. Water dripped off every branch and leaf. I was briefly saddened to see the geraniums had been pulled out, but knew that I had to trust the gardener.

A sodden day. And yet - there were the snowdrops glowing in the grey. Tiny pink flowers like lamps in the gloom.

Everywhere I looked green bulbs were pushing through the wet earth, vibrant with life.