A cold north west wind offers little in warmth, a droukit rain cowps the fields, and a feel of winter shivers in bones. Snow tomorrow, perhaps. It is the month of the coo-quake after all. Yet, the birds sing their songs of spring, the violets still blossom and the lengthening days bring their promise of better things.
Out on the Moor again. Majestic. Showers in the west threaten but here on the edge of the loch a bowl of blue sky above. Everything is bleached, winter worn yet the bilberry is greening it’s way through. The lone rowan tree on my left still keeping vigil over this lonely landscape. I search and find another birds egg speckled pebble and putting it my pocket walk back to the forest . Sun, sweet violets, dog lichen, the soft acoustics of moss. By the side of a water filled drainage ditch I lie down and pick up a handful of squirming, tickling tadpoles delighting as they run through my fingers. For a moment I am eight again and all is well with the world.
On the drive back housemartins skim low over the river and then a red squirrel trots down the road in front of the car. Darting behing the nearest tree it peers out, its bright eyes and tufty ears a complete joy. Spring.
A stand of Scots Pine. Looking up, the constellation of blue green needles hide the bird I look for whose song garlands the bees, and wild honeysuckle with its composition on Spring. Gorse perfumes the woodland verge, and all is young and new today.