Spring Rain

Image by the author

It’s a bright, cold day in March. The garden is a poem writing itself.

The last time the blossoms were out on the plum tree, the pandemic was just beginning. I know it’s not over yet; I am not fool enough to make such bold declarations. But I will allow myself a moment of reflection.

What in holy hell just happened?

I am alone. After years of full-time motherhood and three lockdowns, my children are both at school and nursery today. I’m emerging into the fresh green of the garden and into the anomaly, for now at least, of regular time on my own.

What do I do now?

This strange mixture of grief and relief is not unfamiliar. I feel elated, exhausted and bereft all at once. I don’t know if I’m hungry or tired. I miss my kids; I need time without my kids. Should I go for a walk or lie down? Clean the house? Write, read, laugh or sob?

The garden presents more decisions. Should I dig over the vegetable plot? Weed the borders? Start preparing the ground for the wildflower patch I’ve been dreaming of through the winter? There’s plenty to do, but I can’t focus. I’m waiting to hear one of my children call out for me, but they’re not here. I’m not used to being alone.

Except, I’m not alone.

There are the flowers: clumps of snowdrops and crocuses giving over to bright yellow daffodils, grape hyacinths and bursts of narcissus bobbing and nodding in the breeze. The tree, too, are slowly rousing from their winter slumber and beginning to put out buds. The field is softening, awakening from deep dreams.

After the long, hard winter, the warmth of the morning sun on my skin feels like a song. The frost-bitten shade snaps at my bare hands and cheeks. The green beaks of the tulips, aliums and bluebells are already above the ground, preparing for warmer days ahead, and the birds are rapturous, flitting about in the rush of early spring.

My mind is still unsettled, but the garden is speaking, beseeching me.

How about you just, like, sit down?

I gather some young nettle tops and cleavers to make a tea and take it down to the fire pit overlooking the fields which lead to the river. The hedgerows are on the cusp of the greening-time and the air is fresh and sweet and full of promise. I take off my shoes and plant my feet on the damp earth, then I sit for a while, eyes closed, listening to the birds.

I’m aware of a slight change in the living earth, mirrored by the sky. And then something wonderful happens.

It starts to rain.

A fine spring drizzle, tickling my forehead and landing on the back of my neck in a spattering of tiny, cold pinpricks. The shower feels cleansing and magical, like a love letter from the sky to the earth, sent to bring the world back to life.

A tonic for my tired soul.

I’m captured by the grace of the moment. I feel as though the rain is washing the heavy energy out of my body and draining it away, down through the soles of my feet into the earth. It’s a gentle, beautiful healing. For a time I feel at peace, full of gratitude, and held in love.

Restored by the simple serenity of solitude, blessed and embraced by the beautiful dance of spring.

Thank you for reading!

Changing Sky: a poem about 2020

Changing Sky

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

This year I saw thirteen moons wax and wane
in a changing sky. I saw the white wisp of a
comet disappear over the horizon, far out
beyond the setting sun; I saw the vapour trails
of aeroplanes vanish, replaced with the clear
blue day of a spring filled with birdsong;
I saw three hot air balloons suspended like planets
outside my bedroom window, a billionaire’s
space rocket launching into the cosmos and
a lonely shower of fireworks pop and fizzle
in the black November night. I stood gawping
as Jupiter and Saturn crossed paths to become
one bright celestial light, and when I woke
on the first day of the new year, I looked up
once more and saw that the moon was still there,
white and shining, but in a different sky.

Thank you for reading! 💙


Image by Casey Horner via Unsplash

I’m posting this poem in honour of the New Moon on December 14th. A new dawn awaits 💗

And when you first stepped out
into the pink blush of dawn
did you feel the soft, dew-soaked earth
rise to kiss your feet?
Did you notice the trees
breathe blessings down upon you
in luminous bundles of green and gold,
how every breath of woodsmoke, mist and mulch
filled your lungs like a cool river?
Did you feel yourself attached somehow
to each fading star of night
like a puppet, held on threads of silver light?
And when the beautiful future
which you dreamed of so long
down that hard broken road
finally burst over the horizon
and began tumbling towards you like a wave –
were you ready to catch it?

This poem was originally featured in Scribe magazine: https://medium.com/scribe/dawn-68324890e815?source=friends_link&sk=cfb9c7961d623933917253fa2a0938ad

New Website! And a Message of Thanks

Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash

Hi lovelies!

I’m delighted to announce that my new website is now live. You can visit it here:


I enjoyed the challenge of getting to grips with the technical side of designing it myself. Even using a foolproof web design site like Wix took me some time to figure out!

I’ve been doing a lot of writing over on Medium.com and have found myself using WordPress less and less these days. I’ll be keeping Tales from the Seed live though, and will get back to it in time! I extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone and anyone who has supported and connected with me here over the years; I truly have appreciated every single read, like and follow!

The website has links to a lot of new poetry and articles; I’d love to know what you think.

Wishing all a beautiful and peaceful midwinter season (in the Northern Hemisphere)! 💙

I’m a featured writer for Scribe!

Hi lovely people,

I’ve been publishing some writing over on Medium for the past couple of months. It’s my favourite social media platform by a long stretch, full of thoughtful content and some wonderful poetry.

So I am especially thrilled to be featured as a writer in Scribe this week, one of Medium’s top creative publications!


Edited with great care by Thomas Gaudex, Scribe is a beautiful publication, well worth a few minutes of your precious time. I am honoured to be featured, and hope to see some of you there!

Also, I saw a wild owl this morning, which was completely awesome.

Wishing you all a joyful September x

Lammas Full Moon



An offering of gratitude this Lunar Lammas 💙


Bless the earth underfoot
the breeze on my neck
the still dawn
the open sky
the feather fall
the beetle climb
the crow call
the swift fly
the cloud drift
the rising sun
the golden field
the river run
the grass seed
the ripe plum

Bless this breath
this body
this good earth
this new day


Thank you for your precious time! Wishing you a blessed Lammas




“Protect all the trembling bells of delight that you notice out of the corner of your eye when everyone else is oblivious.” – Martin Shaw

“We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of the world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.”  – Jack Gilbert

“Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” – Margaret Attwood




The field has softened into the sweet song of summer.

Charms of goldfinches flit among the long grasses and

the hedgerow is dotted with bramble flowers and wild roses.

If I crouch down into the waist-high canopy, a whole world unfurls:

a metallic green flower beetle is climbing a sorrel stalk,

a huge turquoise dragonfly patrols the grasstops in zig-zag lines

and grasshoppers hop and sing in the jungle below.

High above, circling in a cosmos blue sky,

buzzards ride the warm currents.

In the haze of a hot June afternoon, the field hums.

What kind of world are we heading into?

Lying on my back in this gold patch of earth

my worries about the future, ideas of hope and despair,

success and failure, and other funny human concepts

dissolve into peace, and delight. In this place, this living poem,

held by the earth, wrapped in the huge dome of the sky,

for a moment I feel like the world just wants us to feel good,

bathed in beauty, bathed in light.







“If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.” – Rainer Maria Rilke


I need these nightly rituals, now;

the damp smell of the earth

as I water the garden,

the happy presence

of seedlings sprouting,

a moment alone with the

new moon rising.

Noticing how, wherever there are spaces,

Life fills them up.

Rewilding in Lockdown


One of the best things about rewilding the garden is the way it keeps surprising me.

Clumps of lemonbalm and fennel have self-seeded among the ferns, possibly from a teabag in the compost. Last year’s wildflower patch didn’t work too well (too shady, planted too late) but is now full of ox-eye daisies, red campion, honesty, poppies and bright pops of orange calendula. The overgrown lawn is rich with dandelions and clovers, alive with bumblebees, birds, butterflies, hoverflies and dragonflies.

Seeds are silently growing everywhere, flowers, herbs and vegetables shooting upwards in that mad rush of May green, but it’s the wild, neglected parts of the garden I love the most: the left-alone corners bursting with nettles, cleavers, dandelion and dead nettle to nourish and cleanse, ground ivy and forget-me-nots to provide food and shelter for the tiny creatures, herb robert, vetch and sweet honeysuckle to lift our spirits. Wild medicine for the soul!


During isolation the garden has become classroom, kitchen, church and living room. It is teacher, friend, and wise old woman. We’ve spent our days there, watching the spring unfold, finding bugs, having bonfires, learning about plants, digging, playing and generally letting them be crazy, grubby little kids while the world has turned upside down. We’ve put a rope swing up in the field. There are few sights better than watching the children trot off through the long grasses, buttercups up to their waists.


Who knows where we’re heading; it’s not really for me to say. But in the uncertainty, there is space for hope. I can’t change the world, but I can raise my children, grow a garden, make it a place of peace, a love letter to the earth. I can keep writing in the interrupted snatches of time available, cultivate gratitude, go gently, fail utterly and start all over again the next day. For now, that’s enough.

In the sweet-smelling promise of a May morning, the field is soaked in golden sunshine, hawthorn blossom filtering down like snow. The garden is lush, green and alive, vibrating with wild magic.

Perhaps in all this chaos, a beautiful future is trying to grow.