Observations in the Woodland Garden

My hands deep in the earth-
Stained and worn
Where air is heavy and intense  from spores released with rain;
I watch fine droplets streaming down new leaves 
Arched over with weight
As fronds of ferns
With Prehistoric curl
Hang low
In communion with Dog-toothed violet;
Where faded  primroses nod
To bluebells near purple in their 
Intoxicating intensity;
The old fork is propped
Ready to lift the clods of soil
In time- worn fashion
In this ancient part of the garden.