Untold Seasons

Live the year, not just the weeks

The first frost on the step. A wreath on the door. An evening that won’t get dark.

For everyone who goes out in the rain.
Who notices the first frost before the forecast does.
Who hangs a wreath on the door for people they’ll never meet.
Who knows spring starts before the calendar says so, whatever the weather does.

The year doesn’t happen on a calendar. It happens out there: in a shed that smells of wet soil, on a doorstep at dusk, in the light that comes back after the longest night.

Most of it goes untold.
We make things for those moments.

Untold Seasons

The first warmth

Spring

It arrives before the calendar says so. A softer light, the first snowdrops, the tools coming back out of the shed. Somewhere, someone is turning the first spade of soil.

The longest light

Summer

Evenings that go on long after dinner, grass that grows faster than you can cut it, a garden full of people. The year at its fullest.

The first harvest

Autumn

Leaves down, the first of the harvest in, bulbs tucked under for next year. Hands in cold soil, planting for a spring you can’t see yet.

The first cold

Winter

Frost on the step, a wreath on the door, a light in the window for whoever passes. The garden rests, and the front door does the talking.

Seasons

One year, four thresholds

Everywhere, the year turns at the same four kinds of moment. The dates change from place to place. The feeling doesn’t.

Walk through the year →

The window

Who comes to the glass

A robin on the frosty sill in January. A beak full of moss in April. A speckled youngster in June. Thrushes from the north, arriving by night in October. The whole year passes the kitchen window.

A year at the window →

Also from Untold Seasons

A free garden game that runs on your local weather. Plant it, mind it, see what comes up.

Play at play.untoldseasons.com →