Thoughts and Observations

Far be from me to criticise a literary giant, but T. S. Eliot got it all wrong in The Waste Land. April is not the cruellest month; on my calendar, it is quite a wonderful month as it heralds the start of Spring.

 

Each season has its delights, long warm summer days, the colours of autumn, and if I can put to one side the grey, damp dismal days of winter, I can enjoy a bracing walk in the snow. When was the last time we had any? Emerging out of winter with its short cold days and even colder long nights blooms Spring. Eliot even says that the Winter kept the Earth warm! The Waste Land is recognised as part of the birth of darker modernist poetry, but for me, more meaningful poetry consists of a bit of wandering and a few daffodils. And where does he get “lilacs out of the dead land”? Indeed, he must have meant crocuses! Ignoring the poetic cadence, perhaps we need Monty Don on this one.

 

I get excited by the Spring; in my walks around the pond or along the old railway line I look eagerly for the first signs of life emerging from hibernation, be it the pond filling up faster than my bath or hazel catkins lengthening and waving in the breeze. If you can, carefully look at a hazel branch and try to find the female flowers. They are small and green bud-like structures but sticking out from the top are tiny magenta styles ready to catch the pollen from another hazel. They are sweet, and who does not stop to look at snowdrops or a carpet of spring crocuses?

 

Spring and its signs of renewal impact me more than the rituals of the New Year celebration. Unfortunately, being of a certain age, Andy Stewart and Home Service ruined that for me. My apologies to all Scots and Radio 4.

 

I live in a flat, or when I am feeling posh, I live in an apartment, but whatever it is I don’t have a garden. Still, I have a few tubs and pots, and in one I have grown Iris reticulata; they are fantastic Spring flowers with deep purple petals tipped with white, yellow and black marked nectar guides. When I see them, they are joyful, so Spring is a joyful season for me. 

 

If you disagree with me, that is fine, but can I give you a challenge? It is something I did the other day. I bought a bunch of cut daffodils, still in the bud from a local shop. They were relatively inexpensive, so I wanted to treat myself. Once home I trimmed the ends by an inch and put them in a vase with water and a spoonful of sugar. Over the next few days, the buds opened and what a delight. Every time I look at them, I cannot help but smile. For me, in that one vase, the joy of Spring is captured.

 

I look forward to my walks along the railway track seeing ragged robin and bugle gradually emerge from winter hibernation while the whole track becomes a tunnel as the trees come to life. Spring is the promise of better to come, but I know that is not true for everyone or for me all the time, but I will grasp hold of these delights while I can and hope that the feeling I have about Spring can help me cope better should my days become darker. As Wordsworth wrote in the final stanza of Daffodils.             

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.