Ireland is going green. First of all it's the National Holiday, Saint Patrick's Day. But even more importantly it is also Spring. At last, at last, at last. After the grey, stormy winter, here in the fields, every small twitch of change registers. Buds, shoots, . . .
Pink, blue, lavender and softest grey, the pastel diary of early spring days. The promise of a new palette. Until then soak in the light, the heart, the hope. Warmth streaming through the window after our wintery lunch. Pull back the curtains, throw open the door and listen to the whisper . . .
After the devastation of the storm, the tree may be gone but the crocuses are still blooming unharmed beneath it...... . . .
While meditating on dewy daffodils and the pinkest fritillaries underfoot, I see her swooping in. Even with a dozen or so humans chatting beneath her nest, she carries on incessantly. Over and back, a short stop on the fence post and one final dive under a window ledge. Carrying more than she can . . .
At first it's tentative. One foot in, one foot out. The icy winds don't help. The community has retreated. Keeping their heads down. Winter is steadfast in it's stagnation. Then suddenly all bets are off. We start to re-emerge, stand on corners and chat, bend down and pull a few weeds from the . . .
It fills the rocky hill outside the window. Where there has been such little growth so far, a smoldering blaze of flowers all contained in frightening thorny branches. The sun warms the flowers so that their sweetest coconut scent fills the . . .