Eostre time again. To celebrate new beginnings. Why we have “new year” in the depths of winter is a’body’s guess …..[cue the Roman equivalent of the anal civil servant type:

“Januarius must be the first month. We couldn’t possibly have a moveable feast marking the start of the year! No; it must be thus. A piffle-paffle to nature – our calendar is what we must follow now. These are modern times!”]

So, are you feeling the strength of March 20th’s equinox? (The equinox is the time, twice a year when the length of the day and night are almost the same, no matter what your latitude). The longer days, the flirting beasties? The flooding push towards the longest day (or the shorter days & shortest if you’re in the southern hemisphere, of course!)?

Well, if you’re not, stop, sniff and look around. The air surely has a different quality? Get out, go walk, smile at the sky and have a lovely rest before the sunny and hard work of the summer begins (this is why all our bank holidays are during the summer months – we would have worked the fields all the hours of sunlight and holidays were much deserved!).

😉

Advertisements

The Imp got lyrical on Friday afternoon; trapped at the desk, cow-eyed at the outsiding world. Here’s what she wrote:

My life feels like a tapestry just now. I listen to Nick Drake, Radiohead, Rolling Stones, and memories flood through me. Past lovers, mainly, happy music-listening times. And the music weaves itself, words and notes unminglable, into blankets of fairy sheets that float like the spell cast by a slow-diving gull over the city laid out in front of my window. When the key change comes, the wind blows us in a new direction and lets us fall; it picks up again, repeats its beat and off we slide.

 

surfgatinho’s summer sky (Flickr)

Gosh, it was like that; I can see it all again now. Bit wanky, but best I could do. Motes in the sun, the open window breeze-singing of springs from my childhood and generations’ before that. Seagulls chattering.

Then I ran a long way, away from home and back, racing sunset. The birds kept singing, every faerie-feary knackering mile. On the way back, I faced a show-off sun bigger than my fist, burning and dissolving, hot off the canal and owning us all before it flirted off round the corner. It had licked the sky yellow. The earth smelt of camping summer nights. I cannot wait for my second six months here – just think what we’ll see!