Sown, Born and Grown

Stories from under the Seed Moon

Every morning for a week or so a magpie has flown into the garden between 8.00 and 8.30. It takes its time and hops, pecks and inspects various pieces of grass and fine twigs. It ignores me staring with interest at its industriousness and gets on with the task of choosing the best that our garden has to offer. With a beak full of nest materials, it swoops off until I see it again the following morning. It’s a temporary routine, a tiny thrill that lifts my not-normally-a-morning-person mood. I’ve noticed that for the last couple of days it hasn’t come back, and I am missing this one-sided morning meeting. But I also imagine the basket-like nest that it’s finishing, and the next generation of trinket-loving hatchlings. Maybe they will make their way here too.

This evening the red kites have soared so high that they are specks in the distance, just about recognisable by their wing span and forked tail. If I could choose a super power it would be to be able to fly. I’d love to escape to the sky.

It’s half past midnight and through the kitchen skylight I can see the bulging waxing gibbous of April’s Seed Moon. I feel tired but bewitched and I want to watch it curve through the night sky; but my body wins. Before my mind can argue I feel the soft landing of the duvet and the next thing I know it’s Sunday morning.

The garden robin has been close to my heels during the weeding recently. It has always kept a safe distance of a few feet, but now it feels like I’m being shivvied along. I’ve felt obliged to speed up, and wondered when it had suddenly become so brave; until my thoughts were interrupted by the tiniest high pitched chirping behind me. Seeing the robin dart into the undergrowth where the unfamiliar noises came from, I realised that it was her brood. My eyes turned to hearts. Over the next few days the chirping became a little louder. Then not longer after that two wobbly-legged, brown, speckled chicks accompanied their mother to the bird feeder, for the first of many lessons.

There has been so much life and growth in the garden during the past few weeks. April is one of my favourite months and I wish I could press pause and experience it for longer. The burst of green as hedgerows and trees come back to life is like an elixir. I can feel the air prickle with the promise of a warmer breeze edging out the chills and draughts. My hands have spent days in the soil, picking out flints and wrestling with tap roots, attempting to make suitable beds for our seeds.

The apple tree is in full blossom, a sweet shop mix of pastel pinks, whilst the tomatoes are creating their own forest on our kitchen table. The brambles are already inching up and up, taunting me with their untouchable stalks, seemingly knowing that I won’t actually stop them because I’m greedy for their fruit. A decision I may well regret.

An early haul of rhubarb is our first produce of the year. There’s so much of it that even giving it away doesn’t seem to slow it down. I’ve been pondering how to use it in ways that don’t involve gins, crumbles and custard (as much as I love them). Ideas welcome.

“April, come she will. When streams are ripe and swelled with rain” *

I wish she would stay.

* Simon and Garfunkel.