Inspired by Regine’s answer to the question What would feature in your winter garden?
Posts Tagged ‘Winter Garden’
how it waits, silently
and then tumbles – as though pushed
makes her blink.
She had forgotten the snow
its attention to detail.
There is a worry – about ice and falling, about aeroplanes and metal.
She remembers how much she likes the colour red.
Back home, the daffodils keep themselves green and tight, and the sky is knitted grey.
Inspired by a recent trip to Stockholm
Inside, the cactus spills its blousy pink flowers over the windowsill, their mouths reaching for floorboards that used to be oak trees. Outside, the day holds its dull skies as though it’s as bored of winter as she is. She stands at the window and considers the abandoned garden – lines of shrivelled fuchsia leaves, ferns tangled into dry brown curls. The glass is cold beneath her palm, and she remembers – for the first time in years – the botanical gardens in Edinburgh: condensation like tears running down the glasshouse walls; all that hot green abandonment on the inside.
The woman she was with told her how glass is made: sand shovelled into a red-hot furnace, and then poured like spitting molten gold into cold water. ‘Can you believe that?’ she’d said, ‘Sand?’ They had talked about taking a holiday in Mauritius, escaping the dreariness of winter in Scotland; running across the beach for a swim before breakfast – sand between their toes.
She traces a line down the kitchen window and promises the fuchsias and the ferns, the daffodil bulbs she’s tucked into the soil – soon, soon, soon.
It was an old, white dinner plate, with an unfussy, rounded rim and dishwasher-tired glaze. It was perfect.
~ A piece of mirror from her mother’s craft box ~
~ Transparent plastic straws ~
~ Thin lines of cotton wool teased from the block in the bathroom ~
~ A white napkin left over from Christmas, scattered with stars ~
~ Silver paper clips ~
~ Icing sugar ~
It took her all afternoon, the day darkening outside – the sky getting ready to rain. When she was done, she cleared away the debris from the dining table and moved the plate to the centre, so she could look at it properly, so it would get noticed when everyone got home.
It was, she decided, one of those gardens that don’t have a house attached. Like an island. She imagined rowing there on a small wooden boat, thin ice cracking across the surface of the water. She would wear her mother’s coat with the fleecy white lining, the big hat she got for Christmas and the gloves her brother wore at work. She would dance underneath the ice pagoda with its thin crystal curves. She would wave her arms to make angels in the sugar sweet snow. She would pick the most beautiful white flower for her hair, and stand above the frozen lake to see how she looked.
inspired by Laura Harford’s winter garden photos