The garden

As I walk up the crumbling tarmac drive, the frosty morning chill rushes up from the north like an Arctic Skua coming in to nest.

The early day smells come wafting around my nose, entangling it in a bundle of rose pollen and dew-smothered grass. Turning to the right to escape the overpowering sea of smells, I notice for the first time the towering fern dominating the landscape. Its delicate leaves spread over the squirrel-trodden ground like feathers. Behind it, glinting with dew, lies an overgrown huddle of spiny bushes reaching like tentacles over the rotten fence. Situated to its left, is a pillar-like tree pointing proudly towards the sun. In the middle of the tree rests a large hole and I half expect a midnight-black woodpecker to come flying through the undergrowth towards it at any moment.