Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty place from day to day. William Shakespeare.
We seem to have been driving from place to place a lot in the last few weeks. Sometimes going off to visit loved ones, sometimes going out to dinner, taking our little grandson out or simply driving to the allotment. The weather has been mixed, but rain or shine it’s a pleasure to be out. Perhaps one forgets about the glories of spring and early summer until the next one comes along, but it does seem to me that the spring this year has been one of the most beautiful I can remember. Trundling along the country roads, I marvel at the abundance of the cow parsley, (I like its other name too – Queen Anne’s Lace,) its masses of frothy white flowers decorating the grassy lanes and the woodland edges.
There is a mouthwatering palette of colour in the countryside; vibrant yellows, blue hues and pastel shades all fill the countryside this spring.
And the birdsong! Who can fail to feel uplifted at the sound of the dawn chorus; the male birds singing their hearts out in the hope of attracting a mate, and who can complain at the sound of the feathered alarm clock calling us from our beds?
I thought about time this week. I thought that I would like it to stop for a while and freeze-frame the beauty laid out in front of me; keep the flowers from fading, and the candles on the horse chestnut trees from withering. I’d like to tell the birds not to stop singing their merry tunes. But Mother Nature is far wiser than me. Keeping watch like a hidden chaperone, she knows that just as in life, each season paves the way for the next. For if we had no winter, would we enjoy the spring?
Blessings to you.
The Butterfly Walk
Over the bridge I lean, and watch
The bright and brimming river,
And it seems that I have known
This familiar scene forever.
And on deep and silver waters
Where ancient moons once shone,
Nature keeps her quiet watch
Like a hidden chaperone.
No need here for a ticking clock
To hasten the sun to shine,
Or an order for the hollyhock
To flower by supper-time.
As the songbirds in the hedgerows
Conspire to lift my mood,
Sweet air blows the rustling leaves
And I feel no need to brood.
The butterfly, woken by the sun,
Gently unfolds her wings,
Here, no less beauty am I shown
Than cardinals or Kings.
© Lyn Halvorsen