Wednesday, April 18, 2007
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.