Today tastes of spring. I find myself thinking often of my garden, aware it needs the winter prune to bring the roses back to size, and weeds have sprung up between the plants. I’m restless to reinvigorate it, it contains now the bones leftover by many different plans each toppled by the next. A old path still leads nowhere where potted trees used to rest. They’ve been taken out back now Zoe dog isn’t there to turn them into small sticks. Herbs have grown unruly and out of reach now shrubs are too large to pass between, or sheilded by the thorny remains of a miniature rose that burrowed under the entire length of the garden to throw up prickly arms without flowers at unexpected places. The most difficult patch, with heavy shade in winter and insufficient water in summer is bare where many species have been trialled but died. Only the arum lilies thrive there, today I can see the first leaves regenerating in the morning sun.

Only my outer perimeter of roses, like a thorny moat, remains a valuable feature. A neighbour recently rampaged up and down the street, venting his spleen on everything vulnerable in reach. One neighbour had the harmless geraniums I’d planned for her torn out whole, the other her collection of trinkets and statutettes smashed on the drive way. To my ring of 6 foot high established roses he contented himself merely with tearing off some flower heads and scattering the blossoms.

Nevertheless it lacks cohesion now, in colour, form, or theme, and my eye cannot find a comfortable whole anymore but jumps from aspect to aspect in a fragmented way. I look forward to revisioning and designing it anew. Perhaps a Mexican theme? Roses, succulents, and colourful statues?

It’s been a hard, black week, but this morning is sweet. Birds are singing in the sunshine, my daughters are happy, and I’ve rested in bed all morning, rereading the wonderful Henghis Hapthorn series by Matthew Hughes. Between the bare patches and the weeds my white violets are in bloom. The last pomegranates hang on bare branches. Jonquils are small pops of colour and perfume among the tangle. Today the washing will dry on the line, the windows are all open to bring in the smell of a bright new day. The bees are in the rosemary.

We are waiting for a baby, a new niece or nephew, to arrive. It’s a good day to be welcomed to the world. So much love awaits you, little one. Between all the sorrows and troubles of the world is also such beauty and tender joy.