This is the view from my library window. To my left, the wall is covered by well-filled bookshelves. To my right, ditto. Behind me is a cabinet, some statuary and ... well ... junk, frankly. Below that window is my desk, covered in books, packets of seed, stationery items, and usually my other pair of glasses and a drink, not to mention the all-important laptop in the middle of it all. And just above the laptop, this view.
Cars pass along that road, every so often. The timber fence separating what I laughingly refer to as my front lawn from public space is lovely: dark, heavy, reminiscent of horse fencing. When I arrived here less than two years ago I put in those timber venetian blinds and planted those she-oaks, and I have been sitting here ever since, writing and watching them grow.
I love she-oaks. They are such graceful trees. The sound of the wind through their needles reminds me of distant singing - it is quite different to the sound of wind through pine needles. Still saplings, they have more than doubled in height, and some of them are over three metres tall now.
I live for the day they are mature trees, Grand Old Ladies. Having spent a lifetime wanting my own grove of she-oaks, I have made it happen. I can't wait for them to stop being young and start being majestic - but there is the rest of my life. We will get there together.
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