In the countryside one can breathe.
There is space. Not rubbing elbows
Not teetering on the brink of pavements
Breathing in air that has recently been expelled by other lungs
Or worse…
I feel such a deep contentment here.
The hedgerows are jewel bright with berries
Is nature where our ancestors found their inspiration?
Where they first saw beads and rubies adorning bare hedgerows
And modelled brooches and ornaments on them?
I meet a young woman who is autistic
It’s a description of how she is; she isn’t
‘suffering’ from autism
As if that were a disease
She lives a different life
Quietly tucked away from crowds
Counting her daily steps to make sure
She sleeps
Her life a careful rhythm of routines
That protect her fine sensitivity
Each afternoon she works on her novel
A saga of great complexity
With beautiful illustrations
Wrought from an unusual and original mind
That shines in this strange
Monastic life she has chosen
Aglow like a singular berry
In a thorny December hedgerow.
I love these winter evenings
When the night creeps wider and wider
And we are only energised in the
narrow window of daylight
I love the luxury of our little home,
Grateful, so grateful for the cosy heating
and time spent watching TV shows
In a comfy armchair
When it is too cold and wet for
Our breathing mechanism to thrive outside
In summer our garden is awash with
Popular flowers, all vying for our attention
Guzzling up the plentiful daylight
Spreading out luxurious leaves to devour
yet more sunshine
But I am more charmed in winter
When, braced against the chill wind
And barbs of icy sleet,
As I nip out to empty a bin,
I notice fresh sprays of forsythia
Against a wall,
Sending out shooting stars of citrus yellow
The only flowers daring to live in the cold bed,
Surrounded by the blackened
Frost-bitten spectres of the summer crowds.
I feel such gratitude for the shy plant
That has bucked the trend
And created light in the darkness.
It spares me a few sprays,
Not defeated by losing a few stars
From its galaxy.
In the bathroom, on a window ledge
The stars sit.
Without any air miles wasted
Nature has provided beauty
In the middle of winter.
