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This afternoon in the garden the air was alive with the chatter of birds. It was a disorganised symphony. The melodic doves in the background, cooing sweet nothings intimately to one another. Delinquent crows squawking obnoxiously in the foreground, accompanied by wood pigeons calling somewhere in between - always a little off key.
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The funny thing about homesickness is that it waxes and wanes like a harvest moon; one week looming large and hanging ominously above everything, a few weeks later a distant and barely perceptible sliver in the endless sky.
They say homesickness has everything to do with attachment. For me it is attachment to a sense of place - a genius loci - which I only truly feel when I’m at home. And the thing which sparked it off most recently was the unexpected demise of a veteran willow tree in my garden back at home.
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One advantage of living on the other side of the planet for a while is discovering an entirely new wild flora. Spring is still spring, but to my British eyes she appears to have emerged in a fabulous new outfit this year.
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I dedicate my latest poem to all the wonderful, passionate, knowledgeable gardeners out there, in honour of World Poetry Day today. I know your gardens call to you too...
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In a brief visit home this winter the garden looked a little sad. Or perhaps it was simply reflecting my own feelings at having been apart from it for so long. It was showing so few of the marks I’d made in earnest in the seasons that went before.
But the badgers seemed happy! I counted more than ten sett entrances, including outliers, all of which showed recent signs of activity.
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We acquired our rather overgrown three acres of English country garden in summer 2016 and I was deeply immersed in discovering, designing and restoring it when the opportunity arose to move to California for a few years. How could I refuse? But my goodness, what a wrench it was to leave that garden behind!