As the winter nights darken,
I gaze out at my garden.
The plants tended with care
Now wear frost in their hair.
They lie quietly dormant,
Awaiting the moment
When their crowns of frost
To the sun’s rays are lost.
When the warmth of the thaw
Creeps into their core
And the crowns that they wear
Are of coloured jewels so rare.
The cliff path twists
and the drizzle persists.
Our hair in limp wisps
as the foliage drips.
Then the mist starts to lift.
We see drifts of pink thrift.
Above the path a swallow flits,
skimming the delicate tamarisk.
Our limbs might be stiff,
but up here on the cliff,
with thrift and mist and tamarisk,
is our piece of Cornish bliss.
