The rain is pelting down on the crocuses in my neighbour G.’s garden; the crocuses that stopped me in my tracks the other day — before I’d realized spring had really sprung.
A small patch of organic sunshine at the corner of the street, these little guys have boisterously multiplied in the two or three years since G. and her husband W. have reclaimed their front garden from the previous owner’s… let’s just call it disinterest.
This splash of colour was like a small injection of joy. When I came by a day or two later with a camera in hand, they were somewhat bent, but no less exuberant. And, really, they’re amongst the few wee bits of anything but monochromatic brown within eye-shot (which is like ear-shot, but with eyes).
Yet, there’s an interesting beauty about last year’s leftovers. Just a few steps from the crocuses, these remnants of G.’s tall grasses, for example, have a kind of pale, paisley waviness that’s quite appealing.
In the parkette on the way to our library, raised beds put the garden at eye level. The spirea have had their spring haircut and look tidy and ready for action. And, here and there, the last few echinacea heads show off their architectural form.
Now, the rain is coming down, deepening the browns, and sharpening the emerging greens. I never mind weather like this. English weather, I call it. Even though too much of it can steal the sunshine from the crocuses, it’s a clear sign of the change of season.
I hope I don’t speak too soon.