The bell has been ringing
too often
summoning busyness.
This is the time
I crave the sweetness
of silence,
to sit at the deep pool

This is the fulcrum between what has been and what is to come, heavy arms that are balanced finely on this point, this now, this me, a V so finely tuned that as you stop here to feel the balance,

The day is slow; slowly the clouds float across the blue face of sky, islands in the ocean.  Slowly the late winter chill fills the space beneath, a steady presence.  There is no wind here,

The snow has filled our world.  Everywhere is white, smooth, beautiful.  It feathers even the thinnest twigs and bunches its blessing on all the leaves.  It sits quietly in the cold, cold air,

Another still day, another day of grey skies and damp air, of bare branches and soggy remnants of leaves underfoot.  This is so often our winter,

The sun is welcoming in the new year.  It has swept away the clouds, the wind, the grey sky, the damp air.  It sits like a queen in her blue heaven dispensing blessing, bringing balm.

Still.  Cold.  The sky is white with the glaze of the early sun but will soon turn a crisp blue.  It is bigger in winter, a backdrop to the bare branches, the dark bones of sleeping trees.

There have been storms, there have been floods.  Here the garden and air are wet but elsewhere in Britain the ground is underwater and gasping for reprieve.  I can see the culprits sailing by,

Last time in my gravel garden this year.  The wind is blowing clouds, branches, seagulls to stir the grey, and the dark, damp leaves are starting to dry.  I like the wind.  It brings new things