Each morning
I’m going to put on
my inner wellies
so I can splosh and slop
through all the floods and mud
life sends me
instead of tiptoeing round the edge
or getting stuck in the muck.

The hazel and hawthorn trees dapple the foxglove and campion.
The bracken breaks through like a bishop’s crook,
the brambles arch and the nettles gather.
They hold silence like a living quality of air,
broken by birdsong and bees’ hum
and the river stroking the stones in the hollow.
There is a magic quality to wild places that restores the soul.

My garden was so lovely
this morning
but I couldn’t linger.
I returned to it
just now
after a shower of rain,
walking the grass
in bare feet,
saying hello
to the new flowers
while leaning
into the wet leaves.
I came back to the house
with a leaf between my toes
and a freshness in my heart.