By 9.30 the sun has levered itself above the school next door but it is still cool in the garden. A blackbird is singing somewhere out of sight. It sounds relaxed and conversational with none of the urgency of it’s 4.30 wake-up call. The euphorbia, backlit by the sun, looks as if it’s been gilded.
There’s a peacock butterfly on the coiled hose on the lawn. It probably overwintered in the tool shed along with the mower and the rusting spade. Goldfinches are chipping away in the flowering plum. We have bluetits in the nest box on the silver birch. Honey fungus is killing the tree from its extremities. The top is bare of leaves. There are dead branches in the emerging green outlined against the creamy backdrop of the whitebeam. This too is under threat and leans precariously over the lawn. Later we will sling the hammock between their compromised trunks.
K is busy tying straw into a mini bale to drop into the cloudy pond. Her industry is a reproach to my idleness.
But I’m busy too. I am waiting for the swifts.
The Reach 