As in every other winter, I take shelter behind the leafy ivy. Here the rusty brick has crumbled away, creating a cosy, warm hiding place, away from the frost and snow. I perch on the frosty tree, looking round at the garden. The pond has frozen over, and with it the birdbath and fountain. The ground is covered with a thick layer of snow. As time goes by, more snow piles up, glittering like tiny diamonds. As the days get longer, the snow melts, the frosts become less frequent and eventually, the ice on the pond disappears and the fountain starts bubbling. In spring, the garden comes alive. I collect moss and branches from the ground, flitting to the tree with the broken branch, the one that the female human fell from all those years ago. No one ever comes in here now; the old human only uses his metal tree to look over into the garden. I weave a nest with the branche; even if I cannot find a new mate this year it will be good to sleep in. I watch, day-by-day, as green shoots of crocuses and snowdrops poke out of the ground, growing into masses of green, white and purple dotted amongst the dead grasses from last summer. The daffodils come next: a dash of bright yellow standing out against the greys and browns of the dead plants. The tree I have built my nest in blooms, pink petals falling to the ground whenever I stir. In the dappled shade under the tree, bluebells emerge to complete the spectrum of plants. Summer comes next, and with it a change of colour. The once vibrant bluebells pale in comparison to the bright blue lupins and magenta foxgloves, browning and dying as spring merges into summer. The roses on the old trellis bloom pink and white and the old human climbs up his metal tree and cuts off the top branches and higher flowers off, then climbs back down again. The water lilies and flag irises are next to bloom, a sea of purple, pink and white in the middle of the garden. Ox-eye daisies line the winding stone path to the rusty-handled door, dandelions growing between the paving stones. Wisteria climbs haphazardly up the archway, its bunches of purple flowers attracting butterflies. Wild grasses and nettles fill the gaps between plants, providing places for butterflies to lay their eggs. Later on, just as the foxgloves are wilting and the leaves are turning yellow, hollyhocks bloom, bringing a welcome touch of colour in a browning world. The formerly green garden blazes with a fiery array of reds and yellows. Cyclamens under the trees nod their heads in the light breeze. My nest in the tree becomes useless as the leaves fall off, no longer protecting it from the wind and rain. I return to my home behind the ivy, the only green thing left in the dead-looking garden. The cold comes first, bringing with it the first frost and after that, the first snow. As I perch on the frosty tree, I look around at the garden and recall its magical, constantly changing cyclical journey through the past year.