Thursday, 17 April 2014
A spring drive . . .
(Click here for musica and then come right back)
There is an untouched, almost virginal quality about "The pale primroses, that die unmarried." There is a green tinge in the sunny yellows that gives them an almost celestial look.
With green crinkled leaves . . . so cool to the touch, and shy little clumps, they are to be found . . . not in the full glare of the sun . . . but huddled together . . .
in quiet . . . and solitary places.
The perfume of the primrose cannot be put into words . . . it is as fresh as wet earth, but faint and elusive. It does not impugn the nostrils . . . like a whiff of Parisian perfume . . . but is an almost divine exhalation from the very soul of the flower . . . the scent of long lost childhood and the faraway woods of memory . . .
We had a pleasant drive to our friend's in Flint yesterday for the pot luck lunch. What a glorious day it was. The sun shone down upon us and we felt it's warmth . . .
and we had each other . . . our hands meeting between us on the front seat of the car . . .
souls joined in the bliss that was the day unfolding before us . . .
We drove past fields of promises and countless wishes . . .
and memories of daisy chains . . . not forgotten . . .
and the spring snows of blossom-tide . . . everywhere, floating down like flakes, so magical . . .
past fields where workers were feverishly bringing in the last of the leek harvest . . . and freshly furrowed fields waiting to be planted . . . promises of a different kind . . .
Oh, I do so love the springtime . . .
A thought to carry with you through today . . .
As each day comes to us refreshed and anew,
so does my gratitude renew itself daily.
The breaking of the sun over the horizon
is my grateful heart
dawning upon a blessed world.
Baking in The English Kitchen today . . . Blueberry Ribbon Cake . . . so good.
If you are off on your Easter travels today . . . be safe.
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