On the day of the Snow Moon we bring the lime tree indoors.
In the polytunnel plant pots were huddled and coddled; still some had frozen; the broad bean was stricken, it may not recover. The lime had dropped fruit and leaf.
Our house is not capacious. Fitting the tree in makes a puzzle of the front room furniture: for if the tree goes here, where does the table go? And if the table goes there, does the sofa fit?
Dog curls on the sofa for refuge before she gets brave and in the way.
She finds that, in its new position, there is room to accommodate her habit of sneaking under the table to look out for dropped food. A mat is laid under the plant saucer to keep outdoor dirt from the carpet: she is determined to lie on it.
Shooed back to the sofa she keeps an eye on us, an eye on the interloper.
Outside Dog and I have the run of three frozen fields. Sun throws light, it breaks into a thousand icy splinters, right under our feet. Every old puddle changes; there are micro landscapes, miniaturised miracles in the crystal earth. Snow falls out on the moors and all the peaks are mountain tops.
Indoors there is a new view from the table. There is soup, and a dog under our feet. Birthday flowers in a jug. A coffee pot singing from the scruffy stove. A lime tree in a vast blue pot. A list of things that seem satisfactory.
When night comes it is cloudless.
We see the Snow Moon, see its wide beam touch the whited rocks; how it reflects up, how the dark is opaqued, how the stars are crystal splinters cast across the sky.
Our house is not capacious. Fitting the tree in makes a puzzle of the front room furniture: for if the tree goes here, where does the table go? And if the table goes there, does the sofa fit?
Dog curls on the sofa for refuge before she gets brave and in the way.
She finds that, in its new position, there is room to accommodate her habit of sneaking under the table to look out for dropped food. A mat is laid under the plant saucer to keep outdoor dirt from the carpet: she is determined to lie on it.
Shooed back to the sofa she keeps an eye on us, an eye on the interloper.
Outside Dog and I have the run of three frozen fields. Sun throws light, it breaks into a thousand icy splinters, right under our feet. Every old puddle changes; there are micro landscapes, miniaturised miracles in the crystal earth. Snow falls out on the moors and all the peaks are mountain tops.
Indoors there is a new view from the table. There is soup, and a dog under our feet. Birthday flowers in a jug. A coffee pot singing from the scruffy stove. A lime tree in a vast blue pot. A list of things that seem satisfactory.
When night comes it is cloudless.
We see the Snow Moon, see its wide beam touch the whited rocks; how it reflects up, how the dark is opaqued, how the stars are crystal splinters cast across the sky.
Comments
Lifting my mug to you, birthday girl!