Here the blossom, there the leaves...

and, two pairs of black tipped ears - at last!

Hello lovely ones, a warm, sunny welcome to you all from A hill and I.

I am terribly late writing to you this week for reasons not wholly explicable—where the bloody hell do all the hours of a day go—but, I hope, understandable…

As I closed the shutters tonight I looked up at clouds scudding over a half three-quarter moon with a deep sense of melancholy. Early spring days, so frustratingly filled with obligations, have caused too many working hours to spill into night and I have missed, all bar two precious moments, an entire luminous becoming of the first spring moon. Also, I have not walked the hill, tended my garden¹—or my hair—my home looks like the village jumble sale—after everyone has riffled and rummaged, discarded all that’s not useful and only the remnants with their bemused stall holders remain—neither have I been attentive to my animals or my family, they have been fed, they’ve been watered though not one hug or whispered tenderness was planted on their lovely heads. I am the stall holder, the negligent owner of sheep and other furred or feather sweethearts; my guilt has been/is a heavy cargo.

That said, it is impossible not to gasp at the voluminous clouds of blossom crowding the hill, the woodland bursting into psychedelia, the legions of floral happenings lining every edge of field and lane, everywhere my tired eyes rest, albeit in fleeting glances while journeying too and fro, is alight with luminosity beckoning astonishment.

And, there was a moment of relief in the miraculously rejuvenated vision that greets me when I make the first trip over to a certain old friend after an emergency visit from the doc who checked all that needed to be checked, found the problem, administered the remedy with quiet, unfazed efficiency—oh to be so calm—then organised everything necessary to avoid any future ‘old-age’ oversights. My relief was/is huge, we have both weathered the storm, he, like a spring lamb, me, more an old ewe eyeing the ram with a ‘please-make-that-the-last-time’ regard. The aftermath of amelioration, in both heart and bone, exhausting.

I was hoping to post a poem, to celebrate international poetry month—that didn’t happen—yeah, I know, its spring, of course it didn’t, who am I kidding? So, here, finally, a few short words from the too few moments I have been granted—call it a photo essay, sort of, because my camera has gathered more dust than photos—from a month of April which, so far, has not bombarded me with free time, nor bucketfuls of creative inspiration.

Vive les vacances, one day to go!

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Where black ears play and cherry blossom glows…

Very—very—briefly - This breathless now… the now of every blooming blossom, the now of all leaves bursting, the now of forget-me-nots, buttercups, wild leeks, the now of nesting birds, their songs and bees, the now of petals, of dandelion seed heads, their wishes blown into the wind, the now of luminous airiness, warm sunshine on pale faces, the now of clouds of white umbels, the now of paying attention… the now of hope for lighter days.

Butchers block notes… apparently, everyone loves lemon meringue pie!

Amidst the chaos of unavoidably late evenings, a lack of ingredients to invent even a paltry supper—other than eggs which I have braved serving in various unimaginative forms for three previous equally chaotic evenings—I summon energy just sufficient to conjure eggs—again—into lemon meringue pie; a small attempt of consolation for my recent, absolute lack of kitchen goddessness, present it with toast and paté to start, brace myself for recriminations with an unapologetic, tired smile and almost shed tears of grateful relief when both husband and son offer no comment other than ‘delicious!’

I am delighted again, daily, by shepherds purse, as if this lowly plant is a mystery I’ve never laid eyes on. It’s tiny heart shaped seed pods containing precious treasure the secret of which I feel should be shared with this whole sad world.

some flowers are like lines from poems before the words even form…

I am feeling uncharacteristically pessimistic. As if the story I am reading may, after all, have a sad ending despite myriad joys revealed in all previous colourful chapters. Now the words are no longer dancing across but falling off the edge of a page filled with contra-indications in black and white. I cannot shake this deep apprehension and wonder if perhaps age is making me too serious.

Depressingly, I spend much time wondering about judges and how they justify their sentencing…

A thirty year old fridge we have moved from four different houses in three different countries had a few days of indecision between intermittent freezing, then warming until finally, in a puff of smoke which turned off everything switched on, concluded its long and very faithful life. This is not good timing but I still feel rather sad.

I finally glimpse the telling black tips of two ears in long grass, then two more. The hares have returned. My joy is too great for words, too great even for dancing, I simply sigh… for a very long time.

I have been thinking, on more than one occasion, again

“I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.”

―Robert Frost

beneath…

And cherry blossom, I surrender, eventually, with little persuasion, to the sheer and absolute loveliness of its softness as spring smiles its most becoming smile. Every tree is breathing a deep and thankful sigh for these warmer days, they reverberate in new leaf whispers, silencing the hush of winters slow grey days. The buzzing commotion of lawless greens, all the important bursting open is in glorious, purposeful process. Under the vernal sun I begin to feel, amidst the rushing and gushing, as if I too have branches with new leaves, blossom blooming and I open them in grateful thanks for the arrival of warmer days and galloping much longed for colour.

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Keeping black tipped ears in mind I send you spring green love

Ongoing love;

Feasts and Fables are publishing a sort of online magazine filled with curios; fabulous photography, interiors, travel and all their usual encouraging recommendations for other writers both here on Substack and elsewhere, this is their fourteenth edition, do nip over next time you sit down for coffee!

Encouragement Files

Jonathan Foster published the third chapter in his Schrödinger’s Cat series, an absolutely not to be missed account of an ordinary family’s experience of growing up and living in England in the 1980’s.

She Had Some Horses

1. Before editing this said; ‘tended my gardener’ thankful to have spotted the error since I don’t have a gardener ! 😉