The simplest and most touching signs of spring are the flowers that suddenly appear unexpectedly, like these small bright yellow daffodils all along the old field hedge at the end of the back lawn. Maybe they were over-shaded by the hawthorn, or perhaps they were under-nourished. Whatever the reason they came up blind year after year and have now all come into bloom.
Nature never gives up hope, not even with all the muck we heap on her.
My trio for bassoon, flute and piano is coming along slowly. It has got past the intensive care stage: out of the incubator. Most of the writing goes on in my head when I am walking around doing anything else but composing. When the ideas are at the stage that they are distracting me to the point that I have to write them down, I do so. I know it is not the way composers are meant to work. How many of us have that inspiration on tap constantly, waiting to be summoned for four hours every morning?
