my heel print pressed deep into a gob of mud on the drive

Sunday morning. The smell of spiced vinegar. A knife scraping and cutting, knocking on the bamboo chopping board. Half a pumpkin, crushed garlic, a thumb sized piece of ginger.

Asparagus fern. A mess of gorgon's hair.

the furred-green shell of three magnolia buds crack open this morning - their tight white flowers dusted with deep-pink

The first shoots of peony, a deep dark red, like sunshine through wine

A few yellow-white flowers, amidst the dark green curls of tea

The pain and joy as the hot drink slides past the raw spot in the back of my throat.

It was dusk. The rear-view mirror was on fire.

Dawn chorus: the sandpaper call of the magpie.

Three cats playing. The fallen down fence panel bounces and trembles.

The stumps of sawn-down silver birches are unblinking eyes - splodges of orange staring through the grey mist.

Other lives: On the floor of our garden shed, someone else's golf  tee. A worn orange spike, dusted with earth and cobweb.

A spray of sawdust. The blade shivers in the wood.

The red Bò Ghàidhealach raise their heads and look at me.

The crunch and squeal of the loppers biting into the laural branch

a nest of golden drawing pins

For the first time in weeks I can see the top of the hills. The grey stone beacon is white in the morning sun. The few people are flecks of ink on a page, dark spots moving along the ridge.