We return to Durer’s clump of weeds, and local glory in our gardens and elsewhere. The sonnet is about a privet hedge and spiders and the painting about berry time in the garden.

PRIVET TIME.
The moment of each day awaits its time.
Today, the small leaved privet hedge,
Ignored again by every passer-by,
Is clothed in frost, minutely round each leaf.
Not overdone, white on a tailored coat;
The leaves themselves, cold darkened, have repose.
But now in grandeur small they hold their place
In God’s creation on this frosty morn.
But that is not enough. Now gone we know
Not where, the spiders, have abstracted out
Their great expressions, on the canvas hedge,
Amazing space, in diamonds, no flies,
with frost. I notice, as I walk, and stop,
the non-anthropic glory of God’s world.