April, An Unloved Jumble of Plants.
Bored of lying in bed, too ill to want to move, not ill enough to sleep. I decide it’s a case of mind over matter and lug myself outside. I’ve missed three days, three days of spring, warm and exploding. I sink down beside the stream and draw the first thing that catches my eye. It’s a jumble of plants that I see every day without really looking at.
The young monterey pine at the back. Usually so blank and black. Today, the bright green of park benches, jauntily dotted with ochre cones and soft growth tips.
Then the sycamore. Twenty years old and with a carpet of seedlings at it’s feet.
Next, the contorted pear. Old and misshapen, clothed in the tight buds of it’s unequalled blossom. Occasionally this tree produces one or two small, warted fruit, so delicious, their memory never leaves you.
And the tangle of wild plum. Invading with suckers. Showing no sign of life. But later so generous with their exquisite purple fruit, blushed blue and dripping sweet. The air will be filled with their fragrant harvest, the humming of wasps audible from where I’m sitting.
The holly. Slow and dark and waxy behind a young thorn, delicate in the light.
And finally the daffodils, loud and stiff. My least favourite member of this strange grouping.
But the spell breaks, my head throbs, my back aches. Shivering, I creep back to bed and dream feverish dreams of plucking succulent wasps from trees.