The Garden

         Autumn has fragmented into all her colours and dropped her metaphorical knickers to the ankles of the tree. Fat berries festoon the skeleton tangle of the hawthorn and bramble hedge and all the busy growth of Spring and Summer has subsided.  First frosts tattoo there intricate tracery onto the flagstones and dress the vegetation in their prettiest lace gowns. They must look their best for their beauty sleep. The garden is preparing for its silent slumber. It  will return to life. Have patience.
        Clouds hang fat and heavy with rain, glowering in the overcast sky. Will they burst here or be moved on by the invisible forces of change? The last leaves spiral in the air holding onto their moorings with the tips of their fingers waiting for their moment to dance with the wind.  A lone pigeon is revealed, fat and pompous, standing on the candelabra of branches considering whether to take the short flight to the stand of evergreens and enter once more into the fray, fighting for position with his brothers in arms. He hovers on the brink of takeoff suddenly doubting his own ability to fly. Maybe he should wait until after the rain.
        The Night Prowler flicks his bronze brush tail in the cover of dawn, preparing to pounce on his unsuspecting prey but heavier than his shadow, snaps a twig and gives himself away. A panic of feather-flaps catapults the Pheasant into the air crying his hoarse warning 'look out'. I picture him as a rather startled World War fighter pilot in a 'Biggles' getup. "Look out  chaps, there's a fox."  He lands, moving faster at a run than in flight, and takes cover in the bramble scrub. He must wait for the coast to be clear.
      The watery sun tries to raise herself above the horizon, lighting the gauzy dew dappled strands of spider webs slung between the stems of the last few flowering plants in the formal beds. She is not so eager in Autumn, this blazing star we rely on so heavily. You can feel the effort involved, the weight of the Cosmos is on her shoulders, but she will not let us down. Her warmth will filter above the trees and melt the night frosted ground.  Have patience.
      A squirrel tap dances its way along the icy fence rail, sneaking up on the overhanging Beech branch, the prickly orb of a nut hanging tantalisingly just out of reach. A serendipitous wind may deliver it to the ground for some lucky squirrel to scamper off with and hide along with his other well gotten gains.  But not yet.
    A monstrous cat stalks though the tall grass beneath the fence all fluff and bluster and pauses as he takes in the squirrel. This could be a bit of fun. They look at one another, the squirrel and the cat, appraisingly. The squirrel has the height advantage on the fence but knows this adversary of old and is not fooled.  He slip-scampers and trapeze-jumps to the higher springy branches in haste. The lion head cat watches, amused. Honour is satisfied. Hail Caesar. He flops into the grass flicking his tail, an 'another-time-perhaps' smile crossing his whiskers.
       A host of pigeons gather in the shelter of the evergreen stands preening their Ascot race-goers morning jackets bickering amongst one another and getting into a flap. They constantly compete with their neighbours for the best view, the most sheltered perch, never trusting their good luck. Place your bets Gentlemen. The feisty Garden Robin eyes his territory from his superior perch on the ornamental ironmongery of the rusting grass roller knowing that no one will challenge him now. The fight for territory is over for the year and he has won a magical land, but now he must fight the cold and the frozen water and the scarcity of food to stand a chance of filling his nest next Spring. He worries, considering his strategies, head cocked,  while the Blackbird, finished with his matins song, pecks through the leaf litter under the beech unconcerned. He is carefree and curious, let life throw at him what it may. Serendipity is on his side. He turns the leaves haphazardly hoping for a juicy morsel hiding beneath showing determined perseverance.
       This is the time of underground activity. Mushrooms and Fungi spread their grasping fingers searching hollows and rot. Bringing life to dark hidden places with their unique floral display of millinery frills from bobble hats to berets in finishes of silk and lace and felt. Some seem solitary souls, self important with their dazzling colours, while others crowd together like students at a rave not a breath of air between them. Unseen the roots are spreading, sucking and savouring the mineral richness of the earth. Gaining strength for the displays of Spring. It will be worth the wait. Have patience.
       The Pheasant spying the ground feeder emerges from his cover, cautiously crossing the frosted fronds of grass. Could this be heaven? He notices the pheasant hen for the first time, her plump pale plumage.This must be heaven. She would make a fine concubine. He is desperate for her attention and opens his wings for a flirtatious flutter-flap. "Look at me." She sees him and pauses in her trajectory, one foot frozen in a Bolshoi pointe. But not for long. He watches as she walks away, his ego bruised by her lack-lustre response. She waits in the dead grasses of the wild flower meadow under the fruit trees, coquettish, confidant. He will come to her.
       The wind stirs in the trees, encouraging the remaining leaves to a flutter-fall as a hand of warmth extends over the garden. The lone Mallard, sensing the warmth of the coming day slowly untucked his warmed beak from beneath his wing and blinks his white lidded eyes from sleep. Standing and stretching one leg looking most unstable he shakes his heads at a brain-rattling speed then begin to preen.  It is too cold now to go for a swim without checking your dry suit for holes. Preparations complete he dives in. A bird circles dark against the clouds reaching ever higher like Icarus on a turbulence of unseen currents for the sun. The Mallard looks at the Grey Heron, statuesque in the reeds, unblinking, unmoving, even in this cold. A long ago memory stirs of his mother telling him he could learn a thing or two from the heron. "The people will bring the bread" she had said. "If you go swimming about exploring with the moor hens you will miss it, stay put and the food will come to you. Have patience."
        The sound of voices breaks across nature's peace and instinct has the Pheasant  running full speed from his cover, head high and tail outstretched to protect his would be mate standing still as a statue in the long seed stems of the sleeping wildflower meadow. They crouch low, close together, camouflaged in the earthy fawn and green of wind blown  tussocks and she eyes him appreciatively. He has shown his metal: spirit, bravery, caring, strength, consideration. Maybe there is hope for this one. She lets herself believe that he may stay and see out the Winter with her.
       The drama unfolds as a door bangs and three people pour out of the house along with a bouncing wooly dog. The dog takes off across the grass nose down to an invisible scent, turning this way and that without explanation.
       " Coat! Bag! Where are your trainers? Come on we are going to be late."
       "Have patience Mum!"
I haven't got time for patience cheeky, we're late. Again."
Lights blink on the car and the doors are flung open swallowing the people whole and then they slam shut again. The engine splutters and chokes into action and begins to pull away. The house door opens again and a man in a dressing-gown runs to the car shouting and waving "Stop!" heaving open the door that had just been shut. The engine sputters and dies and is instantly turned over again.
        "You forgot your snack Munchkin! Have a good day. Bye. I'll see you later. Have you got Bob?"
         " Oh no! He must have gone out when I opened the door."
         "Don't worry, I'll get him, you go. Go,Go, Go!"
A spray and crunch of gravel as the wheels bite and move off once more and they are gone. The man turns and claps his hands together "Bob, come on boy". The dog stands still, undecided for a moment and then races back to the house tail wagging.
          That is the sound of peace shattering. It is the same every morning.The Pheasant and the Hen sit motionless in the grass, feathers touching, hearts pounding, recovering from the shock. It is only as peace resumes to the garden and the birds cease their warning calls that he realises he has inadvertently engineered a meeting with the Hen of his hearts desire. Here he is, feather to feather with her, sharing her warmth. He can feel her heart beat fluttering through his own body and feels his rise to match its tempo as she gently turns her head into his shoulder and gazes up at him through her beautiful pale lined eyes."Thank you".
Such a simple beginning. Her gentle voice resonates within his chest and he knows that whatever this magic spell is  that has woven itself delicately over them like a silken spider web, whatever it's consequence, wherever it takes them he will never willingly break away from it. She has his heart until the end of time.
      They sit together in their nest of grasses, protected from the wind and warmed by each other enjoying the companionship of closeness that is now theirs.  She tells him that she has been in the garden a few weeks since she escaped the shoot. Life is good here, the man comes to fill the ground feeder after every third moon and brings fresh grain and berries. She looks up at him again shyly and waits for him to respond " I have a den in the hedge over there, it's dry and warm. Would you like to see?" She lifts her head and cautiously checks her surroundings. Old habits die hard and besides, however safe it seems here she knows there is the lion-headed cat and the wooly dog to keep a look out for. She walks to the den conscious that he is following her some way behind and swiftly ducks into the well trodden entrance run. She calls gently and he follows her inside the grassy haven. He admires it with a critical eye and then turns to pluck a fine red feather from his breast, passing it to her for safe keeping. "You're staying then?" she asks, tucking the feather safe into the weave of grasses.
     " I"m staying" he winked "I like the company". It is all the encouragement she needed. She understood his heart to be true.
       The man walks across the garden with a bag in his hand and fills the ground feeder with all of heavens bounty. They sit motionless feathers caressing,hearts beating in unison. They need not get up yet.
Have patience, all things will come to those who wait.