A local visitor to our garden - Arthur the wild Cockatoo who can be hand-fed

For weeks we have peered beyond wet glass towards monotonous dense clouds, grey and flat, which have covered our sky. Finally they have lifted. After so much rain the earth is soft and rich with moisture and the surrounding countryside is filled with a freshness and vigour as Spring encroaches with its budding leaves and blossom, eating away at Winter. Spring always surprises with its power of rebirth, forcing its way into life, awakening indestructible hope, for a better tomorrow.

Finally it has stopped raining as we turn the corner from Winter into Spring. The days are noticeably growing warmer and longer. Warm Spring days swell with a thousand buds, fleecy clouds sweep a dark blue sky reminding me of the promise of the Summer to come. Sweet Spring rain continues to fall on a regular basis feeding the moist green shades of earth. Birds bicker amongst shrubs and trees. The creek by which I walk brims over with rushing water. I throw in twigs and leaves and watch them swirl and tumble out of sight as they journey into mysterious depths. Wind gusts catch me up and bowl me along under branches long overgrown, encroaching over pathways. Patterned moss etches outlines along broken limbs thrown astrewn by past Winter winds. Pleasant the sun, warm to the face as I walk. Gum leaves, bestrewn, crackle underfoot. Carpets of Bluebells and Whitebells nod their heads. In my mind I imagine thousands of tolling bells as I brush past. Apple and cherry trees, rhododendrons and azaleas are in full bloom - a kaleidoscope of colour after the dullness of winter. Golden Wattles laugh out their unbodied joy at a new Season of rebirth. Bottle brushes with white, yellow, crimson, scarlet globes begin to flower, glorious in scent and colour. Delicate coloured orchids, no words can describe their poetic beauty, rise in long graceful sprays.

In the early mornings I again hear the old kookaburra laugh out his happiness of a new dawn. It begins with a low rattle of laughter escalating into a full-throated paeon of mirth, changing pitch with triumphant peals of sound. I find such laughter infectious and whilst watering the garden in the damp, misty early mornings I enjoy the affability. White-backed magpies strut their territory, our garden, or sit atop the fence corralling my progress with an overflowing of sound of ecstasy. They swoop fearlessly, their wing-tips metres from my head as I water recently planted seedlings. Weeds sprout in their thousands in the soft moist earth. No matter how many I pull easily from the earth, more seem to take their place. I will fight a loosing battle until the harshness of Summer holds them at bay ...

Grass and leaves drip heavily with a sheen of early morning dew. Such beauty in the sparkling glints. Brushing the tips of leaves, waterdrops dew like tiny dimonds, sun spangled they glint the wealth of nature as they fade upon the cool green leafy veins. Patterned, gossamer spider webs magically appear, an unbilical cord stretching between bushes, charting their spun passage of eternity. A thin vapour rises from the ground, slowly becoming transparent as the sun rises. The low-lying sun caresses skin with its warm embrace. The evenings draw in early, but gradually they are begining to lengthen. The great depth of sky becomes a fiery flame which fades gradually into heavy darkness, revealing new constellations, imperceptible to the eye at first, but perceptibly they brighten in the darkening heavens.

White feesias, their fragrance rising like a visible mist in the warmth from the late winter sunshine pervades our rumpus room. Terry has been working on the garden, creating order out of the riot of disorder the winter has left us with. The cats appear to wind their way around his legs and then disappear scrabbling up the fence to stalk the wilds of the vacant plots behind our house for rodents and lizards. We had lunch under the pergola at the long refectory table, dappled with sun and shade. Cheese and biscuits are spread across a blue and white checked tablecloth with a bottle of red wine. The tops of our wine glasses reflect the light, while their depths glow blood red. I drink little, the pleasure not worth the after-affects for a migraine sufferer. Magpies corral around us. Today, Sunday, the weather is really lovely - blossom sprinkles confetti like around us as we eat, chat and laugh. Silences, we smile at one another, in which no words need be spoken. The first yellow petals have begun to appear on our banksia rose. Masses of flowers, daffodils, irises, freesias and wattle stir in the slight breeze. Our garden smells of thyme and newly mowed grass.

After dinner, we sit relaxing with coffee and port in front of a blazing log fire, watching the world news. The cold white light of the real world is beamed into the warmth of our room. Somehow, compared to our own life, it all seems unreal as we watch the images chase themselves across the screen ...