Winter has a purple hue, an end of life bruise, as the lazy blue of summer darkens. Long nights and short days suffocate. Skeletal trees reach up bony fingers touching the damp, cold air. Decaying leaves smother the bare soil, a wet blanket on the sleeping ground. Worm casts litter the lawn that's crying out for a cut and blow-dry wind. Once loved, the abandoned pink slide sits faded and brittle, longing to be touched, to be climbed on and up, to be sat on and enjoyed. And then reaching up out of the earth, slender green spears of snowdrops appear. Bright gems of yellow jasmine shine defiantly. Sweet scented mahonia, the lilac of winter catch the breeze.