this is the gift of the soul, before the body surrenders,
and like sunlight on saltwater, breaks into impossible colours.
a single new bloom wild daffodil grows at the top of vicarage hill. people used to believe that they would appear where once ancient temples, or monasteries, stood. holy ground, tread with reverence.
muddy red clay paw prints meander about the pavement. there are mosses and mushrooms, too, growing along the shadowy banks of oak-shaded lanes. i’m thinking about how strange and splendid all of this is, how it’s already beginning to feel like the start of a new season. each day, increasing numbers of snowdrops and crocuses spring into their brief being. i can hear gulls, in the distance, they’ll be gliding around the harbour, over rooftops, between spires. a sea-birds’ choir.