At night. in my garden.

At night, in my garden

One day, when the universe has prodded and poked into the farthest reaches of nothing, our sky will be empty.

The hugeness of this idea makes me feel exulted and giddy for a moment; then I shudder.

I open my eyes. Just a little. It’s okay, there they are. Stars wink at me from the past. Well done little photons, you made it all this way through time and space. You amaze me.

My garden, such a riot of green in the day, is all the shades of dark now. It would be wrong to say that it is quiet; merely, full of quiet noises. A midnight breeze winds through the trees, caressing their branches and making them sigh. I imagine the universe is checking the nooks and crannies to make sure all is well. It is here. Thank you.

At night, in my garden, there are blackbirds that sing and owls that chant. I love them. I know that by day, I would feel a need to interact, to commune, to become a player in their performance. But now, wrapped in shadows, I merely soak up their sound. It fills my blood and my bones with peace. And I smile. Some people may feel the need to possess the place in which they live.

I’m happy to let it possess me.

I had a bonfire this afternoon. Wood-smoke still lingers in the air like little wisps of burnt nutmeg. They slip up my nose and down my throat. I work hard here. Yesterday, I sent a message to my husband. It said, ‘Covered in mud, hair like a nest, agonising back ache, fingers a gorgeous shade of green. Totally happy today!’

And I was.