Winter’s Visitor

Pulling the door closed behind him the man raises his collar and pulls on his gloves in an attempt to keep out the sharp wind, which seems to be announcing the start of winter. 

Standing still for a moment he listens to the silence. The silence only this early hour of the morning can offer. The silence before the sun comes up. The silence before the birds announce another day. 

As always his wife has prepared for him a flask of strong sugary tea which he now carefully removes from his deep pocket and from which he pours himself a cup of steaming liquid. 

Placing the cushion, also supplied by his wife, on the back step he slowly lowers his frame in preparation to watch the sunrise. A ritual he performs at the end of every autumn, of every year when he prepares the garden for hibernation. It’s winter sleep.

His gaze sweeps the field beyond their fence. While dawn is still to arrive, he makes out the shapes of the familiar trees all of which have grown with this man and his family over many years. The oak, under which he and his wife had lay and picnicked in the first years of their marriage and under which they had often played with their sons, provides a black imposing silhouette against the first glimmers of light. 

Carved into the trunk of that very oak are the names of his eldest son and his now wife, a declaration of their young love, still visible so many years later. It was under the boughs of that very oak that this son also asked his now wife to marry him.

How many stories would this oak tree be able to tell? 

A familiar shriek suddenly pierces the air and the ghostly, silent figure of a barn owl streams through the air before diving into the undergrowth below to claim its prize. 

The man looks down into his cup and raising it to his dry mouth enjoys it’s warmth while, as so many times before, he realises how lucky and more importantly happy he and his family have been in this special place for almost 60 years. 

With the first slivers of colour on the horizon the man realises this will be a beautiful sunrise. Many who have not been lucky enough to see such sunrises may choose to reach for their phone to record the event, but this man will, as he always has and always will, chooses to watch this sunrise recording it to memory, upon which he can call and enjoy its vividness as clearly as on any film. 

As the colours deepen and intensify the field is bathed in a golden veil and the birds rejoice. The two faithful robins, feathers fluffed up against the cold, begin their recognisable duet, which when finished will be followed by an almost choreographed dance darting around the garden perhaps even settling at the man’s feet. He poses no threat. He is as regular a presence in this garden as the blackbird, the jay, the magpie, the bullfinch, the green finch, the squirrel. 

With his cup of tea now finished the man reluctantly pushes through his knees, stiffer and more painful than he remembers last year. He must now begin the traditional collection of summer ornaments and lights too fragile to withstand the frosts. The many pots, with their tender shrubs and plants, must also be swaddled in order to protect their precious roots for another year of precious life. 

With his job complete the man takes a final sweeping look of his garden and noticing his favourite purple violas, a symbol of fidelity and first love, still growing in the place he left them, he smiles, picks up his flask which he puts back in his deep pocket and heads back towards the house. 

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Having watched another memorable sunrise, as winter approaches, the couple hear the door open and the latch quietly click. Smiling at each other they feel the cold air reach the kitchen and they both shudder in unison. 

As is tradition they both rose from their bed on this cold November 28th before sunrise and, with his dad’s flask filled with hot sweet tea, they sat and waited.

With the sun yet to rise, the familiar, slightly bent form of the man with his collars turned up, wearing gloves and with a flask in his deep pocket, appeared and slowly took his place on the step, a cushion for comfort.

Of course it is not known what this figure thinks of when he appears on the 28th of November, before sunrise, every year, but the smile on his face radiates happiness and love.

This man’s son, as again is tradition, goes to the door, takes the coat hanging on the hook, still cold from the fresh winter air and with the collars turned up, pulls on the almost threadbare gloves, pushes the flask into the deep pocket, picks up a small pot of purple violas and heads out towards the oak tree.

Kneeling beneath the boughs on this sacred earth he will place that pot of violas next to the stone bearing his father’s name and with the flask of strong sugary tea, make a toast to this special winter visitor.