'the empty spaces between stars'

Cold cold cold. Either the Test matches are still on or the rugby commentators do what cricket ones do and take various raconteuring digressions when, I assume, nothing much is happening on the field, or pitch, or is it crease...? because The Man keeps telling me the lowest sub-zero temperatures in different countries. Cold enough here, though at least so far this year we haven't lost any of the courtyard bluetits, unlike the last two winters. (In France the flamingos haven't fared so well.) A pheasant and two squirrels visit the birdfeeders; I smell fox in the courtyard sometimes in the morning, scavenging for a nut or two, poor things. Earlier today lapwings and fieldfares were flocking together, and I watched a fox quarter the field at Larcombe.

Dog and I go up to the field now to dig a couple of leeks in the deep dusk; our approach sets a clatter of woodpigeons from the trees. Above me Jupiter and Venus are blazing; and is that Mercury over in the east? In the little orchard, the silhouettes of apple trees show swelling nodes; secret buddings going on. I've forgotten so many things this winter: to wake the apple trees with a Wassail on the 17th January; to plant garlic before that, on the winter solstice; to order onion sets; to continue with my druidic studies. I haven't forgotten the sound of my mum's voice, nor the softness of her hands, nor the way her face would light up at my arrival.

In the dimpsy the trees rustle. Above, high high up, a plane's contrail stitches the stars together.