It is May. The forerunner of summer. I walk round the garden under leaden skies, braced against the wind. There was no frost last night thanks to the clouds, but a heavy one the night before. Everything seems small, growth is slow; a stunted spring. I have looked at the slow to wake garden and wondered if summer truly will come again, or if the unimaginable might befall, and seasons stall. It has felt like winter forever, mood matching weather. Or is it weather matching mood? The garden and I, we are both made of the same atoms, both run on the same quantum energy, who is to say which of us influences the other?
Before Beltane
Before Beltane
Before Beltane
It is May. The forerunner of summer. I walk round the garden under leaden skies, braced against the wind. There was no frost last night thanks to the clouds, but a heavy one the night before. Everything seems small, growth is slow; a stunted spring. I have looked at the slow to wake garden and wondered if summer truly will come again, or if the unimaginable might befall, and seasons stall. It has felt like winter forever, mood matching weather. Or is it weather matching mood? The garden and I, we are both made of the same atoms, both run on the same quantum energy, who is to say which of us influences the other?