It was just a piece of kindling, an unremarkable twig from the autumn before last, until we tied a piece of parcel ribbon round it and I had paid someone to move the shed from the allotment, so there was a holy place to sit in the garden and there they hang, breathtaking in the early morning sun, the angel and the crib.

I love the shadows. A soaked summer’s day, there’s a black bamboo just outside the open door, where the sun is streaming in, bent so low you have to be careful not to hit your head, so heavy is the dew, so tall is the tree.

The heavy stillness of late July, yes the rambling vine, way up in the plum tree, is still crazy busy but even the bind weed seems to be slowing down, as if the garden is content to bask . Nothing to prove, nowhere to go, no need to do much anymore. Everywhere is mysterious green.

It’s a morning to sip from your flask in delight and maybe pick up a book, that will tell you something that, on this morning, you know already.

The rake, a fork and my beloved rabbit spade in the way, I fumble out into the day, the dog stretched out in the sun, jumping up at my approach, sad that the moment was broken.