One of my favourite places on earth is the Vegetable Garden in our backyard. It is a small veggie garden, with only a few things growing there in each season, but it is a testament to the changes of the year.
The garden seems bare on the surface, and devoid of colour. The artichoke plant produces a few blooms of prickly silver, and the dill and other herbs are still growing. But under the dirt is a treasure trove of potatoes and yams: purple and tiny white orbs, alongside red and yellow gems. The branches of the raspberry bushes look like thin whips, all crackled and dry.
There are pansies growing between the strawberry leaves, and small shoots of spring onion are sprouting through the dirt. In the glasshouse, the cold and bare vines of winter are starting to grow leaves. Everything is flowers - the raspberries, the strawberries, the chives and the gooseberries.
The strawberries are ripe and bumblebees trail lazily between the purple artichoke flowers. There is an abundance of gooseberries, so that the thorny arms of the bushes droop low under their burden. The red of the rhubarb is peeking through green leaves, and brightly coloured stalks of chard shine in the sun.
The raspberries have arrived, and I spend my days atop the water tanks, picking them and eating them then and there. Over in the field the hazelnuts are falling, and dad is whistling to the dogs as he picks them from the ground. The vines in the glasshouse are bearing small, sour grapes. All the gooseberries are gone, stolen by the birds, and the earth readies itself for winter.