Tuesday Mornings

The fog had crept across the garden all morning, soaking into the space between tired daisy heads and trampled grass. It had stealthily stroked everything it passed and left a cold trace of moisture clinging to the underside of oak leaves, pampas grass and rhododendron blooms. Up in the sky the sun was battling to break through the thick cloud cover and every tentative shaft of light was being batted away by this endless trail of fog.

 

Two red wellie boots jump from an open doorway into this scene. Determined thuds on the back door step and with a second’s pause to contemplate which direction to run in they are off, racing into the gloom adding a jolt of colour and noise.

 

A second pair of boots join them, more slowly this time and in a gentler colour way of navy blue. The door is closed behind these boots and a voice calls out to slow the red boots down. A warning not to fall in the puddles, be careful of the tree roots, don’t go further than the stile at the end of the garden.

 

The owner of the red boots hears it all on the breeze and more. Little ears pick up on the busy hum of a bumblebee desperately searching for an open flower in this morning’s grey garden. A flock of Canadian geese have passed recently and echoes of their honks fill the sky like a long forgotten vapour trail from an Easyjet flight headed to the sun. Ferns uncurl so slowly and gently. Little hands reach down and try to speed them up but they recoil at the touch and spring back to their safe place.

 

‘Grandma, can we go over the stile? Find the lambs? Find the baa lambs?’

‘Absolutely little one’

‘Grandma can we go on an adventure after that?’

‘We’re already on an adventure to feed the lambs’

‘Yeah but can we go a really big adventure? Find the bear?’

‘I think Mr Bear is out for the morning though’

‘We never find the bear do we Grandma?’

‘We will one day when you least expect it’

‘He won’t eat us will he?’

‘No of course not. He’ll have had his Weetabix and will just want to make us a nice cup of tea’

‘Good. I love you Grandma’

‘I love you too. Now let’s see about jumping over that stile’

 

Four boots plod through the fog, scattering it at each footfall. The bumblebee settles inside a flower and one strong beam of sunshine hits the ground and claims it as a victory.

 

Tuesday afternoon is about to start.

Taken by me this morning on the train in gloomy Kent