There is something touching about the first flowers of spring.
Snowdrops in a corner by the wall, pushing through ivy and dead leaves. Wild violets in the bank by the road, their deep secret perfume inspiring devotion. Primroses everywhere, never too many. Crocuses, shiny toy soldiers in paintbox uniforms. Grave Lenten Roses in their sepia dresses.
On Friday I worked all day in the garden. There was a hint of that balmy softness that is so much a part of an English spring.
For a few moments, a lark sang high above. You could almost smell the sap rising.
Even the weeds looked fresh and new.
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