Spring - not yet arrived - is on its way. Striped blinds reveal morning light and black outside lamps need not be lit for those returning from work.
Our garden is small, a courtyard of stone walls. A length of line where washing may be hung on dry, bright days. But come October we lose the light, beyond the pitch of a roof and surrounding woods which filter the sun.
Relief then, for spring to come. To unload washing and hang it up.
In the breeze and below bright skies. So I may open windows and reclaim the house. From pants and socks and cotton blouse.
And when warm enough, sit out. Sunhats and a woven mat - a garden of pebbles and not of grass.
And a bluebell wood, by our home. Where I tell my boy that fairies go. The ruins of a walled garden and a grassy slope.
And the mountains of an island, glimpsed on tip-toe. Wooden gates and race you home.
With a girl too young last year to know. Come spring the first one out the door... x