I am awoken by a cacophonic chorus of Zen Buddhist frogs chanting their mantras. In rapture, they shower The Great Rain Deity with their vociferous offerings of praise and, in return they are showered with sheets of rain - anointed with a sublime balm.

Also gathered here are some of Nature's more fearsome rulers. His Royal Highness, The Wind approaches with stealth and puny subjects are swept aside to clear a passage. Pompous and proud, this howling tyrant moans in disgust at the rebellion of stubborn trees, and proceeds to force its will upon these dissenting subjects. Some finally kow-tow in submission while others are made example of - flayed naked of their cloak of leaves , then torn from limb to limb.

Intruding rudely through my bathroom window, a paranoid security light starts at the slightest hint of movement, treating with great apprehension the rather suspect movements of trees bowing to the mighty gale. As annoying as a dog that barks at long-time neighbours, this false alarm rings out through the night, piercing the sanctity of the soothing restful darkness with sacrilegious blasts of light. In its vain bid to nab red-handed rogues, this overly enthusiastic guard serves only to expose the invasion of a lawn of innocent, glistening gems: stubborn drops of rain that desperately resist being drawn into the soil's ubiquity, and cling on for dear life to the hairs on blades of grass, relentlessly defending their new-found yet brief individuality.

Glistening like cellophane in the sunlight, slimy snails' trails weave drunken paths across the walls. Lured by the utterly intoxicating wine of winter, a myriad mirthful molluscs sever their seals to embark upon an exodus to the promised land: a forest of ripe and succulent blades of grass. As a fleet of combine harvesters systematically eating through wheat fields, with rasped tongues like scythes, they steadily level the lawn.

Crunch! Fateful footsteps on this winter lawn spell doom for scores of unsuspecting snails. The air is filled with grotesque popping sounds with every other step, impolitely putting an end to the victim's blissful festivities. Left mutilated behind, they recoil in agony as razor-edged shards of their shattered shells lacerate their tender flesh. In their death-throes they bleed forth a froth of slime. Who knows how long their pain lingers? Who ever bothers even to consider? So flippantly flower worshippers crush this 'evil' pestilence.

My mind's eye sees it all as I lay tightly spun into my dark cocoon and gaze out upon the winter world.