The snowdrops which have proliferated in the Shire this year
have faded into a well earned rest now. The narrow strip of woodland at the top
of my lane, which played host to a regiment of snowdrops, is now being washed
with the creamier white of the wood anemones. A forest of heavy bluebell growth
promises to turn the woodland floor blue before very long. The blackthorn trees
have donned their all-encompassing white cloaks, and the hawthorn bushes in the
hedgerows are garlanded with the green of fresh new leaves. Yesterday I saw the
first pink blossom on a cherry tree, and today it was the slightly darker pink
on a flowering currant in my neighbour’s garden.
And so the race begins. We will now rush with indecent haste past the ever-changing exposition of nature’s colourful bounty of flowers and leaves and berries and fruit until the wool appears on the willowherb and it will all be over for another year. It all seems to happen so quickly.
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