Morning: How to make time: A manifesto. Allan Jenkins

pomp, life-giving, nutritional, heat for the later harvest, sunlight for growth, for baby birds, for the blossom, bees. A pollination of the day, touching everything everywhere, moving on. Here I am part of the process, waiting to be lit. I gather thoughts, harvest them, scythe them down, rake them up, for compost, for pillows for picnics: green and sappy, to be dried and used later for fuel.

      April 15

      4.55 a.m.

      A black and white light. Charred sheen on the terrace. Trees silhouetted, the wood a solid charcoal sketch. Blocks of near black for nearby houses. Almost total silence broken at 5.20 a.m. by birds. Suddenly they are all in song. I wonder how long they have been wondering whether to sing. A wall of sound, maybe a hedge, but no species dominant, all in full flow, bass treble, soprano sections. No long solos, every bird has its part. The rain like a percussion track taps on the metal chimney of the stove, lays down a back rhythm on the terrace. The fire joins in with a liquid roar, like wind, like waves.

      Within half an hour the birds quiet, still singing but more sidetracked, as though they have things to do, babies to feed. The tunes change, become more reedy. The yellow flowering bush is lit, the monochrome filled in. Soft edges. Shadows. The grass a fat green brushstroke, more for the idea than the thing, no detail as yet, the mood of grass, a signal. White wood anemones almost shine in the meadow, perhaps a pearl necklace.

      April 20

      5.15 a.m., London

      Slept in, late night. The back gardens are full of cats. The black-and-white Felix is the most fearless, the one who gets trapped in trees and on roofs. He is stalking another smaller, younger cat like him. The dog behind the fence makes a lunge as he passes. Both cats quickly disappear. A new tabby sits on a far elevated corner, looking down, studying its new world. The dominant black stalks the flat roof with a swagger.

      This is the big cat-meeting place, four or more with their own corners, some like time-shares, the youngest sometimes looking to play or engage. They jump from roof to roof like Spiderman, walk long narrow fences like acrobats. Acutely aware of each other but mostly respectful. Except Felix. Within half an hour they have ducked away and disappeared through flaps in search of breakfast and sleep.

      Eight crows suddenly sit in the tallest church tree, like an unsettling omen. An oddly quiet invasion. One launches and lazily leads five others away. A couple stay for some personal time.

      April 21

      4.10 a.m.

      The church blackbird exultant as I lie awake. Sings for an hour, almost exactly, and stops. Moments later, another starts out the back (or is it the same bird on another boundary edge?). Within a few minutes, stereo, but both songs further away. All the while, the crescent moon, clear as day. By 5.20 a.m. I can see details, apple blossom, lilac, white windows. The sky is colouring over Canary Wharf.