Mudwriter

Putting on my ancient, blue anorak, shapeless and baggy in all the wrong places but warm, I shove the back door open. The old door is warped and damp, the bolt broken years ago, and it gives easily. I step out into the snow, which creaks under my feet, and pick up the bucket of vegetable waste for the compost. The white is traced with tracks of birds, made bigger as each star-shaped footprint melts slightly in on itself. It seems sad to spoil the pattern with my heavy footprints but I make my way. The snow is shallow and ready to thaw so the grass shows through as a dotted line of green pools.

The lid of the compost bin is covered in snow, sagging under its weight and pulling against the ripped corners that secure it in place. Tugging the lid towards me I unclip the corners and throw it back so the snow lands behind the bin with a rattle. The compost inside is cold and heavy, feeling solid when I stab it with a fork to turn it.

The birds have all disappeared while I have been outside, save for a blue tit scolding me from the hard, black tangle of hawthorn. I know they won’t have gone far. In this bitter weather, the garden gives them cover and food.

I top up the kettle with warm water and pour it over the snow that has filled the bird bath, releasing leaves and pine cones from the ice. Then I toss warm, meaty-scented mealworms, peanuts and fruit onto the ground, and place neat handfuls on the bird-tables. Because it is so cold, I put more food out on a wooden slab I found in the garage and on the decaying table that sits just outside the kitchen window. Returning inside, the warmth of the house surrounds me and I ease off my boots, trying to avoid stepping in the pools of slush that form around the doormat.