I have a smile on my verge at the moment if not on my face, a sunny grin that spreads across the cottage, a yellow sigh that I share with birds, insects and animals alike. Its handover time for the seasons, the daffs are in full bloom and the clocks have gone forward.
I love the rag tag look of early Spring, full of promise like a bad haircut that's finally growing out. The wet fields that sucked your wellies from your feet, have dried, the roadsides are dotted with ready made bunches of daffodils, like jolly hair plugs on a balding celebrity.
Custard coloured primrose nestle in the dikes and hedgerows, taking over from those early risers the snow drops who have nodded off ready for a well deserved rest. Dandelions burn like little Suns in the grass and lost looking hyacinth add a dash of pastel colour in the sea of green and yellow.
While some trees wear pink frothy perms of blossom others are still seemingly bare until closer inspection reveals designer stubble, leaf buds waiting to burst out of the end of every branch and twig.
The lambs are in the field cutting a fine dash compared to the shaggy unkempt look of their hardworking mothers and best of all the days are long and light.
I'd never say that I was well read but probably well watched, I think this comes from my interest, or is that panic about time, trying to preserve a moment in the library of the mind, find words that fix an image to the page. I want to enjoy every moment of the light nights, feeling a guilt if I go in before its dark.
The garden beckons