Something Bright

I was walking over Harting Down the other day, a chalk hillscape on the Sussex border that blazes with wildflowers and butterflies every summer. Although the last weeks of winter are still releasing their grip, and the hill is still a mass of mud clods and shadows, I managed to find something bright hidden in a hectic nest of brambles. Tiny shoots of acid-green leaves were erupting between the thorns, each cluster like a flower unfolding into the sun. I imagined, in fast-motion, the leaves spreading over blossom-speckled vines before each flower ripened into a dark, perfect blackberry. A wave of reassurance rippled from these tiny leaves - a reminder that, in the Wheel of the Year, everything passes and everything returns. The rhythm is there to rock and cocoon us, just as I rocked Ash this morning when we went for his first vaccinations. Those poor podgy little thighs, punctured with the cruel goodness of modern medicine.

It’s grey and blustery outside today, but the blackbirds are singing and our local bakery started selling Mini Egg cookies, so I am 99% sure spring is here - even if she has stage fright.