The sun has long disappeared behind the ridge of Monsieur F's field, but by the pale blue of the evening sky I can still see enough to tug at the brittle dry stems of fat hen and heave out yet more builders' rubble from the edge of the cottage lawn.
Here is where I want to make a "hot" border: yellows and deep oranges and clashing reds; dogwoods dug up from elsewhere in the garden and transplanted to add structure between the scattered seeds of achillea, marigolds, echinacea, dark poppies and hollyhocks and golden sunflowers to echo those planted in distant fields.
Vita stands on the edge of the bank, nose to the ground waiting for the scurrying of small rodents. When bored she comes offering to dig where I am working.
In my mind's eye I can see the border finished, full of colour in the heat of a late summer's afternoon. For now though, it's just Vita and I on a muddy weed-covered bank in the fading light of a spring evening.