The first primrose in the woods.

A skylark’s song spills over and out across the fields where a kestrel tacks, alternately coasting and straining into the strong wind. Sunshine rays of celandine warm the understory of a large chestnut and I am reminded that we never get tired of seeing a new season emerge. It is always as if its new and the way we look deepens with age. It intensifies to a point where, at times it feels as if our heart might break when now looking at the first primrose in the wood. Walking along the track the wind pushes at my back, hurrying me home. Light and life are returning to our northern edge.