This was ground elder once. Nothing but ground elder, as far as I could see in any direction.

It is something else now.

Old roses in galvanised tubs, just breaking into leaf. Chives already flowering, always first, always slightly ahead of themselves. Something white and lacy coming up through the beds that I cannot entirely name, which feels right for a garden that is still revealing itself. Rhubarb at the edges, large and slightly absurd and entirely serious about itself….

The house knows what is coming. Hellebore and daffodils find their way inside, herbs are cut from the garden and laid on the kitchen table. There is a particular pleasure in this kind of preparation — unhurried, instinctive, rooted in the rhythm of a house that has done this before…

By the last week of January, the house is read differently.

A vase of daffodils on the table is enough to prompt it…