May 19 2005

A Cold Spring


Lambing has finished. Fat sturdy little lambs have moved onto the higher fields with their mothers, now I can turn my attention to the garden once more. How the years vary. I look back at this time last year and read with incredulity of a heat wave, of meals in the garden, seeds frying in the poly tunnel and fruit and vegetables racing away in the garden. As I write the rain pours down. The cairn looks out of the window and grizzles, the lurcher and the sheep dog are curled up on the blanket at my feet and the old labrador, crammed into a too-small basket like a giant brown dormouse, paws over face, is dreaming, I’m sure, “of delphiniums blue and geraniums red.”  I wonder whether to switch on the fire.

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