I wake to the shrieking of foxes. At first, I can’t place the sound – still half-asleep, it seems like a scrap of dream has escaped into the attic or the walls, whistling and itching and coughing – but I wake, and yes, it’s the foxes in the garden, back again as they have been the last few nights.
Read MoreMugwort
I don’t know how she got here or where she came from but there she is, seven feet tall and standing in the potato patch and now I can’t imagine the garden without her.
Read MoreIn the Rock Pool
I’m staring into a rock pool, at Pink Bay, just outside Porthcawl. Called “pink” because some of the rocks, especially when wet, blush like wild roses.
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