The garden sleeps . . .

 

The January garden sleeps . . . no splash of colour stains the ground or bush . . . an errant clueless rose perhaps,  having jumped the gun during a freakishly warm spell, its colour very much out of place amidst the browns and greys  . . .  

 

The trees lay naked, . . . their stark branches reach for the sky through the damp cold air , fingers outstretched in silent prayer . . . the quiet earth beneath spread with a crystalline quilt of a frost.  A protection and covering for the life which sleeps for a season beneath the wet, dark, clay . . . 

 

How still and quiet it all seems, no sound disturbing the silence of the day.  No signs or hints of the life which lays buried for a season, under the frozen earth.  Bulb and root and seed lay in wait for the tell-tale signs of lengthening day and increasing warmth of sun.  From here will come a blaze of bloom and flame  . . .  gold and crimson . . . ivory and rose.    

  

Hope  . . . it sleeps beneath the cold dank ground . . . it will soon awaken and fill the earth with promise. It has been ever so.  This seasonal dance of hide and seek when all lay resting, waiting . . . as sure as one day follows another, as night follows day . . . they are not dead, they only wait . . . Spring will come.  

  

Indoors we dance to the same tune as we sit beneath blanket, by fire and stove, as needles click and the soft whisper of turning pages embroider our days. Tis a season of waiting, and it matters not if  time passes beneath the warmth of wool and cosy fire, or beneath the cold frozen clay . . .  it will pass nonetheless, and life will go on.  (Click here to listen to the music below.)

My life flows on in endless song;

Above earth's lamentation,

I hear the sweet, tho' far-off hymn

That hails a new creation;

Thro'all the tumult and the strife

I head the music ringing;

It finds an echo in my soul,

How can I keep from singing?

 What tho' my joys and comforts die?

The Lord my Saviour liveth;

What tho'the darkness gather round?

Songs in the night he giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm

While to that refuge clinging;

Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,

How can I keep from singing?

I lift my eyes; the cloud grows thin;

I see the blue above it;

and day by day this pathway smooths,

Since first I learned to love it,

The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,

A fountain ever springing;

All things are mine since I am his ...

How can I keep from singing?

~Robert Lowry

 

In The English Kitchen today  . . .  Shepherd's Pie.  Todd really loves meals like this.

Have a wonderful Wednesday, no matter what you get up to.  Don't forget  . . . 

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And I do too!