Spring ought to be sprung

When I was growing up in the countryside I used to spend a lot of time with my dog, walking around the lanes and fields. I knew what month it was by looking at the flowers in bloom.

I’d wait for the bluebells to appear in the secret wood, watch for the peppery heavy flush of cow parsley to froth up in the hedgerows, the fine May months when the grass had the unfurled, first-born green shine to it.

Summer was overblown, when the heat and dust of harvest had played out the colours of the grass, leaching away its strength.

It worries me deeply that the seasons have become so unreliable, so unpredictable. This long dull winter refusing to shift feels so wrong, and damp climbs the walls of the house. So, in memory of heat, warmth and light some pictures:

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