It was just gone five on a mid-spring morn. I strolled to the top of our garden. And to the north east, I looked, so longingly and listened, so carefully. I watched the gentle swaying of newly budded trees. Sweet songs of morning birds, enchanted with their call.
To the north west, through the branches on the tree, I saw the sleepy town, noted the rolling hills.
And on this magical morn, resplendent colours of a Pieris bush, a "Forest Flame", dazzled proudly in the early light.
The wee folks looked so happy. The solar lamp wind chime now had its pride of place. The breeze whooshed by. The windmill spun. The wind chime played a nature's tune.
Back inside and beyond the window, beyond the picket fence, beyond the wee folks, the windmill, the wind chimes, the eerie mist of magic, a foreground to the pink tinged sky. Soon the sun would rise above the eastern horizon. Symbolic of hope in this green and pleasant land.