Spring is on the way

The trees are still quite bare and many little bird's nests are clearly visible nestling among the branches. The pheasants are safely strutting about in the fields and confident that it is not the shooting season. Butterflies dance in the bright mid-day sunshine. There are still wintry mists and a nip in the air at night, but in the day time creatures are stirring all around us. There are lots of buzzing noises from the bushes as the bees wake up and sudden flutters and scuttling noises from the hedgerows as you walk past.

Here is a poem by Christina Rossetti that I feel expresses the wonder in the miracle of Spring.

Lord, purge our eyes to see

Within the seed a tree,

Within the glowing egg a bird,

Within the shroud a butterfly:

Till taught by such, we see

Beyond all creatures Thee,

And hearken for Thy tender word,

And hear it, "Fear not: it is I."

First really sunny day of the year

This was the first really sunny day of the year. It was warm enough to wear a t-shirt and it was a delight to feel the skin warmed by the sun.

Here is a poem that must have been inspired by a day like this:

O Earth! Thou hast not any wind that blows

Which is not music; every weed of thine

Pressed rightly flows in aromatic wine;

And every humble hedgerow flower that grows,

And every little brown bird that doth sing.

Hath something greater than itself, and bears

A living word to every living thing,

Albeit it hold the message unawares.
 

Richard Realf

On this beautiful day we saw: a peacock butterfly, frogspawn on a pond, some cirrus clouds also known as mare's tails, a church surrounded by flood water and a stream full of bubbling water.

The breathtaking beauty of Spring

And the Spring arose on the garden fair

Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere

And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast

Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest:

The snowdrop and then the violet,

Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,

And their breath was mixed with sweet odour sent

From the turf like the voice and the instrument.

 

Percy B. Shelley

 

The blossom is starting to show on the hawthorn hedges but most of the trees still appear to have their Winter silhouettes. On close observation you can see the buds and shoots preparing for their Summer glory .

Feeling sunny and spring-like

 

My husband knows how much I miss the countryside where I grew up. It was part of my daily life .It was around me all the time. Here in the town you have to look a bit harder but it 's there for anyone that wants to see or feel that same delight and joy in Nature.It 's there when you wake up in the morning and hear the birds singing.It's there in the sunsets that sweep the sky in the evening. It doesn't take much to stir the heart.Just a burst of bird song, a few short notes, a parch of daisies , a clump of moss.

The other we went to a nearby shopping centre. He doesn't like shopping like most men, but if I ask nicely he'll come with me for a coffee then sit and read his paper while I whizz round with the trolley . As we were packing the boot he said " it isn't exactly The English countryside,but there is a very pretty stream over there. Well I went to look and sure enough the stream by the side of the car park was frantically calling out that there was beauty right there.

You would never know that was by a busy shopping centre .The water was clear and sparkling, the banks covered with occhi della madonna.

At the Art exhibition the other day the guide mentioned Walt Whitman and said how is poetry conjures up the same sort of images as the paintings, at least I think that's what he meant, I was a bit hungry by then.

Here's a poem by Walt Whitman that to me seems appropriate

I believe that a leaf of grass is no less than the journey- work of the stars

And the pismire is equally perfect , and a grain of sand,

And the egg of the wren.

And the tree- toad is a chef d'oeuvre for the highest,

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven,

And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

Walt Whitman

Not really sure what a Pismire is  -will look it up tomorrow

Lopping and chopping and pruning

The gardeners and tree choppers are very busy here. There are lots of whirring noises, crashes and thuds along the tree-lined avenues of the town. Friends who have large vegetable plots are early to bed with back ache. There is a lot of pruning and lopping all around. Even I have gingerly snipped off a few twigs and old leaves from my plants on the balcony. I always feel that pruning gives plants a better shape as well as getting rid of dried out and rotten bits. The lopping of the branches gives the trees a surprised look against the spring sky. They look a bit like teenagers who have had their straggly hair cut against their will.

The men on their machines at the top of the trees look very skilled, they must have a good head for heights.

The one about the daffodils

 

 One of William Wordsworth's most well-loved poems is the one about the daffodils. Anyone who has ever been to the English Lake District or seen the film about Beatrix Potter can easily imagine how he got the inspiration to write such a lovely poem. One of the wonders of the human imagination is the ability to recall wonderful scenes at will. Just close your eyes and picture yourself walking across the beautiful green hills and vales, coming across the daffodils and maybe a nice welcoming pub with a roaring log fire. Involve all your senses while doing so. You will feel quite revived just after a few minutes, even on a busy work day.

I took a photo of some lovely Italian daffodils growing by a stream. You can tell they are Italian by the palm trees in the background.

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud, by William Wordsworth (1804-07)

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud,

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host of golden daffodils,

Beside the lake beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Then the last verse:-

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Pussy willow, catkins and the magical world of the woods

Mother nature has been sprinkling the countryside with gold and silver to distract us while she prepares the final touches for her dazzling, bounteous display of blossom.




A fairy's door?

Catkins and Pussy willow were magical for me. They were the first buds to be noticed at the end of the winter. We would pick bunches of them to take home and I would gently stroke them and imagine how the little fairy folk would use them. The catkins or lambs tails were golden silk gowns for the fairies. The Pussy willow could be used to make silver velvet cloaks for the elves and pixies. The moss was the carpet of their ballroom. Whenever fairy rings appeared on our lawn, my mum would tell us that was where the little folk and been dancing all night. We believed her. She told us stories about the glow-worms that helped the woodland creatures find there way home. We would wander through the woods looking out for the doors to their houses on the tree trunks, sometimes knocking and hoping a fairy would answer. Of course they would only be seen at midnight with a full moon, when no-one was around. they kept the countryside safe, looked after the little animals and birds and had magic wands and wings. They were friends of all the little owls, rabbits and woodland creatures. They belonged to a vast, magical, happy parallel universe.

None of this really survived the journey to Italy, apart from the fact that I had grown up, sort of ... The woods of Northern Europe fire the imagination in a different way to the bright sunshine of Italy.

The first time that springtime came around I asked how to say Catkins and Pussy willow in Italian, I was met with blank looks. I looked "catkins" up in the dictionary. All I could find was (Bot) amento, gattino.

Yesterday, however, my little granddaughter told me that the teacher was telling them a long story. A little bit every day. It was about a little barbagianni  who was afraid of the dark. I looked into her dear, earnest little face as she told me the story, I felt my little folk stirring, unfurling their wings and opening their eyes.

Now that is a word that I really like in Italian, barbagianni. In English it is Barn Owl.

Barbagianni literally means Bearded little John.