this was once the coast – 2nd visit
April 14, 2010
So was glad to return and enjoy a leisurely walk through the levels past the site of the ferry – now long gone – where the blackthorn in the hedgerows is breaking bud. The spiny texture and angular habit clearly visible . . .
but, strangely, a large specimen was in full blossom due probably to the impact of maximum light. The effect of the prevailing wind is evident . . .
. . A. said it reminded her of a Harold Mockford cloud . . .
(Asleep on the Downs. Harold Mockford.)
Saw smoke trails as in the Mockford painting but also lapwings providing rather more spectacular visual effects with their acrobatics – rolling and diving – way up high. Why on earth is the collective noun a desert of lapwings’? Skylarks – an exultation of – a much more descriptive noun – were on song but not to be seen. At the other end of the scale, swans were also looking for suitable nesting places. You can choose from a gaggle or a whiteness or a bevy or a bank – but I prefer a ballet of swans which seems to evoke more accurately their movements – slowly, rhythmically and rather elegantly – whether in flight or on the ground.
Down in really wet ground along the water’s edge, clumps of Lady’s Slipper (Cardamine pratensis) announce the start of the damp meadow flora season – feminine and oh, so beautiful – small scale tapestry at ground level . . .
. . . and wide open strong effects looking up to the sky through the network of last years fruits on the alder . . . and through the reeds and across the levels and the damp meadows. On to full spring, at last both in the countryside . .
and back at home with Tulip ‘Gavota’!
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human naturefeels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
Emily Dickinson A Light Exists in Spring