It was the middle of May and still there was no sign of the swallows. The roof of the yellow house, where every year since before even Greta could remember, a pair had perched, waiting for each other’s return, remained empty.
‘Yesterday blue fought through the cloud and the sun came out. In the walled garden, the birds sang, a hundred tiny voices making a chorus of good news.’
‘In the last week of March the blackthorn flowered. Rosettes as white as snowburied fields burst from stems black with witchcraft, from between the thorns of fairy tale and folklore; thorns whose vicious stab cast Sleeping Beauty into a hundred year sleep.’
“…it can feel as though we have no control over the climate or our environment, that nothing we do matters; whereas in truth, everything does.”
“Gardening, the act of putting my hands into the soil, saves me time and again.”
“It was brutal, but wasn’t that what nature was, what we were, made brutal by our drive to survive?”
Learning to embrace imperfection in life and writing
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