About ten days ago the media were saying the bizarrely long winter we’ve had would continue until the end of April. I knew it was nonsense. That is, it might be true, or it might not, and it was mere entertainment material which sells newspapers and generates internet gossip.
It still might be true, or it might not, but current indications are spring has finally, belatedly, but convincingly arrived. The dreadful cold has stopped, we’ve had days of reliable sunshine, and there are buds everywhere. Some daffodils have been and gone, after impetuous flower and then cold demise. Crocuses too, cast their delicate colours across the ground, but more sparsely and precariously than normal.
I write, 8.30 pm, with darkening but clear blue skies when all too recently it was thick grey daytime followed by abrupt early black.
I love this time of year. The return of light, colour, life. The time when I want to get out on the hills, and stay out. I do however often carry a weighty feeling of ‘yes but you can’t trust it’ and ‘yes but it won’t last’ and ‘yes but this is not enough’ – regarding predominant gloom and its paltry counterbalance.
But if the sun’s here, and it was today, and I see flowers and light and colour, it’s OK.