I’m waiting for the words to come. I’ve waited since the turn of the season, for my mind to follow the industrious tide of spring. Waited for dreams nurtured by the winter dark to emerge into the light.
Spring passes in waves. Daffodils blaze and wither. Cherry blossom unfurls and melts, polka-dotting the grass. Dandelions turn to clocks. Hawthorn blossom and cow parsley flourish. After each, I sense a pause, when the days hold their breath and things are hidden from view, until the next wave arrives.
Spring delivers its gifts. It passes quickly, as inevitable as the tides, but I wait in vain for the words to describe it.
I watch the two carrion crows resident in the park build their nest. I see them pick fur from the grass and peck strands from an old hessian sack in the middle of the road. I witness them mating on the field. Their nest is visible in trees that are only now bursting buds, but is too high for me to see what is inside. I hear a regular caw from the nest and watch one crow forage and chase seagulls from the park, beak only centimetres from wing.
I observe the spring rituals, feeling the season pass me by. And still the words don’t come.
I find a tiny goldfinch nest in a small maple in the square; a soft, furry cup almost part of the tree itself. I watch blackbirds collect worms for their young. Listen to the chitter of blue tits and the harsh call of the chiff chaff. I watch an oystercatcher, foraging among a posse of magpies and wonder if he has mistaken himself for one of them. A blackbird and a magpie perch in the same tree trying to out-sing one another. I find a dead rat, tiny pink paws curled tenderly. A minute later a magpie swoops down and begins to feed from its corpse. Spring is bursting but my words are fallow. It is one of those seasons when the mundane world takes over and there is no energy left for creation.
In the hedgerows it is the white season, but in some places, it is the season of blue. Beneath the shady trees of the cemetery, the froth of cow parsley tangles with the azure of bluebells. It is another gift of spring, this treasure of blue. Blue has always been a precious pigment. It took time, effort and expense to source it. It is a colour of joy and harmony, yet also describes sadness. I suspect the words this season will continue to be elusive, as precious as that pigment used to be. But I will seek them where and when I can, and though the fallow period isn’t over, I finally find some words to describe it.