The springy valley lies calm in the distanceOnly the mist hanging in the trees while the sun sparingly looks throughThe sheep are happyand the lambs have grown almost as tall as their mumsThey are curious little buggersWhen they’re bored, they like to raise their lips and singThe top of the hill is another story: Busy scything leaves little hay mounds, the chicken tracktor still needs fixing after the previous storm, the white frost covers still are on the trees, waiting “for the last this year”In the glasshouse the nursing is full on, already the third charge of little seedlings that will go out soonAnd the hundreds of little pots filled with herbs, natives, fruit shrubs and experimentsMeantime, on the other side of the valley, the pine pollen clouds are moving over the trees like a giant beeing of its own