The crows are still calling winter as they play in the wind gusting over my wild garden, but from a hedge a pair of robins are singing and from other perches, blue and great tits, dunnocks, blackbirds and a wren join in the chorus. Their tunes have changed in just a week, there are now signs of spring in their songs and in the air. I can smell the green smell of early growth, still faint but it will grow with the leaves.
Today the sun is out, now just that bit higher in its arc and with the first promise of warmth. Encouraged, I peer into the pond looking for signs of returning frogs, but the ripples are caused by mallards, three drakes circling an unimpressed female. I’ll have to be patient and keep waiting, perhaps the frogs are waiting too. I read that spawning can coincide with the full moon shining her light on their amorous adventures, but there are also social media post of frogs back in ponds to the south and west of mine. I persuade myself that the wait won’t be a long one.
The snowdrops are all up, full out and dancing daintily around the garden, they nod to the touch of a single honey bee as she forages, moving methodically, from flower to flower. New hellebores are lifting their heads daily, ready and waiting for the fatter, heavier bumble bees to come searching their wide open faces for pollen and nectar.
The little fat buds of the cherry plums are beginning to open too, single stars for now, individually small and insignificant, but soon they’ll form a frothy white haze covering the trees.
From now on we’ll see more colours ebb and flow as they wash over our gardens, sunny yellow celandines, daffodils and dandelions will give way to waves of bluebells and forget me nots, the blue of the spring sky.
Just like every other flower in my garden they are oblivious to the joy I take in seeing them and I find their indifference appealing and a strange sort of comfort. They will carry on their lives, following the seasons and the sun whether I’m here to watch or not. I like that.
