The dusty remnants of last night's bonfire lay eerily abandoned in the garden. The once jovial flames that danced the night away are merely a distant memory. A memory of the enthusiastic spring gardener who tossed hedge cuttings, fallen tree leaves and sawn off branches onto the hot red blazing glory, leaving a trail of grey smoke drifting across the neighbourhood.
This morning the garden is now clear of most of it's winter debris. Neglected Leylandii hedges have been trimmed to a more manageable height and the stunning wild rose bush that suddenly sprung from within the hedge last summer has been pruned to perfection. The Ivy has been cut with a heavy hand revealing a wooden fence that sits unassumingly beneath the huge mass of creeping, twisted foliage.
The hens appear to have unexpectedly taken a liking to the Sedums. They have pecked at every plant, every rubbery leaf showing signs of chicken attack. Strange...they have not touched them in previous years and as one of my favourite plants in the garden, I feel an overwhelming urge to protect them so the hens have now lost their freedom to roam and will be sectioned off. Naughty girls!
The compost heap is once again full, the winter cobwebs in the shed have been left intact, shrubs have been transplanted, the deck swept, the red watering can eagerly waiting to be filled and fresh garden plans have been drawn. I stand before my garden, anticipating the hard graft ahead and triumphantly whisper "Bring it on!"