'Daffs in a Pot' - watercolour, March 2000
It is officially Spring, and never has a season been more welcome, after the prolonged harsh weather and an over-cold house with only a modicum of heating. The wind has turned to the south-west; a rain-washed morning. We have survived and have already begun the Spring-cleaning of the garden. Many of my beloved herbs succumbed to the low temperatures, but the soil is beautifully friable after weeks of frost. Growth is late, tree buds just showing that swelling of the sepals that is the forerunner of green leaves to come. Crocus shine in 'the plum patch', the blue stars of chionodoxa are just emerging and suddenly too my miniature daffodils poke their sunlit blooms through their winter leafmold blanket.
This will be a short post; it's heads down here at Ivy House, non-stop work and projects that can now be attempted: flinging open of doors and windows; a sorting of 'the office' and workspace; Raymond back in his workshop, and me scribbling, or rather keyboarding - and making time to sew.
The pic above was one I attempted at a watercolour class I attended ten years ago. The tutor was a lovely lady who always wanted us to 'paint large' - I found this really hard as I tend to create small, in miniature. We had to take in a pot of bulbs for one class, so I dug the little daffs out of the garden, stuck them in a pot, and they fell over in the car on my way to class, which didn't improve them, or my mood, and I never finished the painting. It was one of those days; I am sure we all have them when nothing seems to go according to plan.
But not all days are a downside: the poem that follows is part of a much longer one I wrote in 1970 - thirty years ago; to me it still so perfectly expresses my feelings of today, I decided to share it.