Sunday was a blue skied, softly breezy, spring scented gift of a day. After interminable months of damply grey winter, there was finally a touch of warmth in the air. We bundled into the car and off to the common with a football, to fill our lungs with freshness. The little one, hopping with excitement, requested his kite. He squealed with delight as his eldest brother launched it into the blue, whilst he himself clutched the string tightly in his chubby, grubby hand.
The air was hazy, and blurred in the distance, with the earthy loam scent of new beginnings. Brown skylarks, who call the common home, wheeled above us and sang out, an unbridled joyful song. The little one ran, intoxicated by freedom, the kite’s rainbow ribbons trailing as he giggled and dashed.
As we sat, up there above the world, it felt to me that I could see spring, advancing towards us over the horizon. It was as if all through the winter I had been holding my breath, waiting for this moment: the inevitable, magical return of the spring.