Every February, we declare a Snowdrop Sunday, searching out swathes of snowdrops in one grand garden or another. It’s one of my favourite days of the year, filled with the promise of spring.
Snowdrops ‘Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know what despair is; then winter should have meaning for you. I did not expect to survive, earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect to waken again, to feel in damp earth my body able to respond again, remembering after so long how to open
Thank you winter, for the misty mornings & the snowy days, for the cosy woollens, the open fires, the steaming mugs of tea & the candlelit evenings.
New Year on Dartmoor ‘This is newness : every little tawdry Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar, Glinting and clinking in a saint’s falsetto. Only you Don’t know what to make of the sudden slippiness, The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant. There’s no getting up it by the words you know. No getting up by elephant or