Lean Time

As the days shorten and skies darken Greenwich meantime feels like a lean time. With a heavier coat I go out scarfed, my hat pulled down, to find those last leaves compact in corners and crevices. With whitening fingers gloved I crouch and pluck them for leaf mould; while wood lice watched by a robin, head cocked, alert, are plucked as he darts for a morsel, as blackbirds too pluck the last berries. As a north-easterly blast attacks, it is time to retreat from the chill wind into a defensive shelter, to sharpen secateurs for pruning apples, blackcurrants and gooseberries. Winter battles as the rain rattles on the windows, probing and testing. I bring in some logs and lay the fire – match to kindling it begins to roar. Now dusk it's time the curtains to draw. Hot drink clasped, I behold a new moon crescent up into a clearing sky. There beneath the starlit canopy snowdrops begin to poke through the grass as if to reflect the countless stars. In the morn I rake moss from the lawn to keep warm – it pays to keep moving – with aconites as if acolytes soon to join a vernal procession into the promise of renewed life.