Come into the garden and sit for a while,
Absorb the picture of the seasons,
Like chapters in an ever changing story
Each blessed with something new.

Come and share my private paradise,
My enclosed bit of nature
My graft and glory,
Listen to the non spoken story

Long, dark nights of frozen hours,
Bending, moaning trees,
Endless rain washing away and away
Cleansing, feeding and preparing

Shoots and buds bursts of bloom and excitement,
Fresh gusts stealing your breath,
Bright new mornings narrowing your eyes,
Preparing for the bask

Lazy bloomers drooping in the sun,
Waiting to be quenched
And natures contented whispers
Slowly closing in

Bruised skies and the echo of time
The ending of another story
Come into the garden, my garden
And feel the very essence of life

Frost

Frost is natures momentary preserver, the tight clenched fist of cold,
The mornings embrace.
It is the silenced call of frozen elation, chimes to the eyes,
A woody damp aroma, the essence of solidified time.
Early morning workers, lapping up the kaleidoscopic views and breathing quietly
Children with sleepy eyes running to school, steam streaming from their hot blooded faces embraced in an untouchable frost smoke scarf.
Frost is a memory of bird beaked bottle tops and the distant hum of a milk float,
People united in their self warming rituals.
Frost gives depth to the snapping, rustling, crunching steps towards night fall,
It coaxes you into comfort and encourages the desire for warmth
It nips, it bites, its beautiful, its treacherous, cold and bright, slippery, impressionable
Frosty mornings are a glorious starter to the days menu of temperature
To one man a vision of wonder, to another a miserable frozen curse.