At 4am from my bathroom window I can hear the dawn chorus streaming from the trees around the house. One bird in particular sings a long sweet song which seems to have no end. In my imagination this is the nightingale from the fairy story. But not that even I imagine I am an Emperor.
And the birds begin again in the afternoon, calling from the trees and sometimes fluttering to the bird table, then veering off at the last moment like a World War 2 bomber.They must be put off by me, sitting writing at my black writing table.
A woman with short hair passes the gate and catches sight of me. She doesn't swerve away like the birds. She catches my eye. 'It's quite a haven here, with all these trees in the middle of the town.' she says.
I nod. ‘Quite a haven!’
I show her the wash of bluebells, a little blowsy now, past their best, at the bottom of the garden. ‘It’s because this is all ancient woodland’ I explain.
‘The bluebells and the yellow aconites come and
come, again. They spread and spread. Even if you leave a patch in the
cultivated garden the bluebells sprout where they haven’t come for twenty years.'
|Jasmin's Archie Among My Bluebells|
The woman nods, sharing my sense of surviving magic for a split second. Then she tells me she’s looking at a house further along the little road. ‘This is really quite a haven,' she says again.
She seems like a nice woman. Sounds Antipodean. She strolls off and I return to my black table and my pen and book. And I still listen to the birdsong, more subdued now as the day moves on to a close.