Here I am in my beautiful garden in wet July, in this cool, errant summer. It is always here, like God, like joy, while I pursue my life elsewhere. It is here, and if I sojourn here again I can take it with me when I go. It has changed since last I was here, a week of growth, now the roses have dropped and the buddleia is bursting purple. There are white clouds racing across the blue sky towards the west, towards the hidden sun, and the trees are riffling the breeze. But here, in my gravel garden, the air only moves gently like a well-mannered guest. I will breathe its cool balm with my skin, with my blood. It is the freshness of a new day.