The Weak winter sun warms through the chill of the bitter breeze blowing lightly as I wander whimsically through my garden. I follow the stone steps which snake gently down the slope, between the tall trees and bushes which bare their barren branches, tangling and twisting towards the sky. I hear the crackle and crunch of the crisp curling leaves, brown and bereft, a crumbling carpet beneath my feet.

Purple pansies peep from among the roots of the roses. Green points protrude, piercing the earth, promising a bountiful bank of beautiful bluebells, later in the spring.

A few early pale, pastel pink blushing blossoms are beginning to bloom. Bursting from the buds lining the length of the branches. Stark stalks stick up from the brown earth, waiting for the sleeping dahlias to return.

Fantails flit, following my path. Their cheerful cheeping, a sweet soulful sound to greet me.

The leaves of the flaxes, flap and flutter, tickled by the wind. My curious cat creeps cautiously, slinking silently through the shrubs, stalking me. Fresh-air invigorated, I return indoors to indulge in a hot brewed beverage and serenely sip with satisfaction while toasting my toes before the flickering flames of the fire.