Blue skies
My room faces the sunrise. It's such a change from waking up last week: shards of light peek through the blinds and start to warm up the room. Spring is slowly starting to show its face. We've had a week of thick, grey cloud - threatening rain but never doing much more than blocking out light. Now it feels like the curtains have been pulled back and the universe is coming out to play again - hello, you. Missed you. Welcome back..
There are purple and white crocus flowers pushing their way through the ground in the little garden in front of the office. The yellow ones will follow when the soil is warm enough. Heat seeking, light seeking, life seeking. New buds on the trees, and a tinge of softness around the witchety fingered trees in the park showing where the leaves are about to unfurl. Like thousands of green butterflies emerging from cocoons, drying off and ready to fly.
It's still brisk, to use a word by Grandfather applied to anything from a light summer's breeze to a wintery gale. But I knew what he meant. Just slightly too cold to be right for the season. I don't need a hat, but I still need a scarf. The chill in the air as I leave the tube station, rush of air down the escalators to meet me, tells me it's not quite time. But we are getting there.
The lengthening light is the best bit, for me. And I can measure it day by day. A few mintues earlier in the morning, a few minutes later at night. It's the evenings I like best, leaving work and still catching some of the sun. The shock of light on the face is still fresh and new, and to actually feel the sun, rather than just look for it hopefully, is a change worth savouring.
There are purple and white crocus flowers pushing their way through the ground in the little garden in front of the office. The yellow ones will follow when the soil is warm enough. Heat seeking, light seeking, life seeking. New buds on the trees, and a tinge of softness around the witchety fingered trees in the park showing where the leaves are about to unfurl. Like thousands of green butterflies emerging from cocoons, drying off and ready to fly.
It's still brisk, to use a word by Grandfather applied to anything from a light summer's breeze to a wintery gale. But I knew what he meant. Just slightly too cold to be right for the season. I don't need a hat, but I still need a scarf. The chill in the air as I leave the tube station, rush of air down the escalators to meet me, tells me it's not quite time. But we are getting there.
The lengthening light is the best bit, for me. And I can measure it day by day. A few mintues earlier in the morning, a few minutes later at night. It's the evenings I like best, leaving work and still catching some of the sun. The shock of light on the face is still fresh and new, and to actually feel the sun, rather than just look for it hopefully, is a change worth savouring.