Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Seasoning

A clock has struck somewhere unwinding spring. A buttered knife smears thick yellow rape across green fields. A silent shout and, in a beat, puritan twigged hedges break out white in blackthorn blossom. Daffodils dry and fall away to paper brown while green buds wait undecided on stirring trees, hopeful of more warmth. Seasons move in the country. In the city, you could think that seasons stood still. I was lucky to notice one slip into the next. The time it took to walk through dirty rain between tube and office. A glance from a window at grey sky scraps. A summer lunch on a slatted wooden bench, watching lorries ride by. One year ratchetting on to the next. Desk diaries spelling out the passing time. But, here, golden sunshine is striping spring on a champagne chilled day. Here, the seasons dance. You cannot miss them. They will not allow you to.

11 comments:

Kaycie said...

Beautiful, wifey. I can see spring in Northumberland from reading your words.

Winchester whisperer said...

Good gracious - I think you're finally beginning to enjoy the country

bernard said...

Down here in the South, I saw Red Admirals dancing in the sunshine in early April. I note from some websites that they can overcome the British winter and survive into spring. The seasons are no longer what they were.

Stay at home dad said...

Forget spring - it's summer already now that swifts are returning and hawthorn is flowering (apparently).

Ah yes, the desk diary governing the seasons, months, days. That's a good one. I remember it well...

Ian said...

Nice to see you getting the hang of it.
This is what I missed when I was in the city, it's hard moving the other way around too. But I do know where I would rather be.
Do you have the pheasant's in the rapeseed?

mutterings and meanderings said...

Sometimes I think we are looking at a different view; today we're not.

However, I do have a different opinion on oilseed rape to you - http://mutteringsandmeanderings.blogspot.com/2007/04/not-so-mellow-yellow.html

bernard said...

Re Ian at 8.12pm

Now the shooting season is over, the oilseed rape is great cover for the pheasants. We have one very proud male who traverses our garden every evening, with his partner in tow. He pops into our enclosed part of the garden and feeds on the leftover corn from the chickens corn/mash breakfast.
I really enjoy looking out of my study as the sun sets, my usual glass of Bordeaux by my side(refilled regularly), as they toddle along on their way to god knows where.
Foxes are in abundance(too many methinks)and the swallows who have nested here for the last 10 years returned last week. Come the late Autumn, it is a sight to behold as they line up on the telegraph wires before their migration to a warmer climate.

aims said...

Uh - here in Canada - I believe we call rapeseed - Canola...

sounds nicer somehow doesn't it?

suzie said...

At this time of the year to see a golden carpet of rape and to take in the peppary smell makes you glad to be alive and appreciate natures wonders. Unless you suffer with hayfever then not so great.

Anonymous said...

When I moved to Massachusetts from London aged early 30s, it was as if I had never seen flowers bloom. Very true, Judith. You would think I would have known this, City boy and all, but no.

Anonymous said...

When I moved to Massachusetts from London aged early 30s, it was as if I had never seen flowers bloom. Very true, Judith. You would think I would have known this, City boy and all, but no.