There were definite signs of Spring out there today. Glimpses of sunshine, flowers coming through, the solar lights on tonight. Will still be pissing down weekend, mind.
At this time of year, if we pay attention . . .
(Persephone Awakening, by Jesper Alvermark, aka Zabani)
Someone put trees there.
We are not out of the woods yet. Though we are in the tail end of March there is still talk of cold weather to come, with possible snow for Easter being mooted.
But still, there’s always signs, hints of the season to follow. Winter is fighting it’s last rearguard action, and the end will be merciful. Easter does indeed bring a resurrection.
The longer days, the warmer weather and emerging wildlife always seem to bring a creative boon, and now is no different. I am tweaking the manuscript for a second poetry collection: In Brigantia, before returning to the second draft of the novel Seasons On The Hill that I’m writing. Beyond this I have ideas for a semi-fictional take on family stories handed down to me, provisionsally entitled In Times Of War, and also a collection of short stories called The Night Spills In.
I’ve also agreed this week to proofread a translated work for a fellow poet, so things are starting to move.I’ve got a tentative plan about the order of things.
But first a coffee, I think, and see what tomorrow’s weather brings.
Frogs were spawning; daffodils opening; children willing to walk. Everywhere: optimistic signs.
Spring is on the horizon, things begin to build.
Spring:looking at it anew through the eye of wonder.
I don’t expect I’ll ever fully know how remarkable life is, or ever be fully present to the paradise we dwell in, but I am sure that it is in the season of spring that I’ll get closest. Wherever I rest my eye, fresh miracles abound. Plants are clothed in a shade of green so vibrant it might just change your life. Crawling creatures of all shapes, sizes and colours are newly transfigured into their adult forms, whilst overhead sojourning birds celebrate their recent return to this latitude
How can it be that the dusky swift scything through fields of cloud was woven out of dust, specks and motes of hardly anything at all? What unknown worlds exist within the midge swarm that drifts, fairy-like, from the dew-soaked grass, and how did the chiffchaff divine that the time had come to fly north and seek out this rich source of…
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