I’ve had a lovely couple of days, pottering about in the garden, doing this and that, tidying up and weeding, of course. Trying to mend things and make things and just being generally happily grubby. And I thank whatever saints or fates or fortunes decreed that I’d be blessed with this little space of my own to play in.

I have spent a lot of today plotting some pleasure for next Spring. All the bulbs I grew in pots and troughs and planters have died off now and so, because I want those pots for my summer plants, they’ve all been tipped out, cleaned up and put into trays to finish drying off.

So, with half my mind I’ve been planning potting up the lovely fresh lettuces and tomatoes and peppers, runner beans and maybe even cucumbers, that I’m hoping to enjoy this summer, fingers crossed.

With the other half of my mind I’ve been visualising how I’ll replant the bulbs this Autumn, perhaps with some new purchases to fill gaps in colour, type or time. I’ve been daydreaming about how I’ll enjoy the glorious miracle that Spring bulbs are in those short days of February and March and April, when the sun’s light is low and a chilly bright day is as invigorating as a lick of a lemon sorbet.

So, for today, I’m not trapped in lockdown, in uncertainty or anxiety or resentment at the curtailment of my freedom. For today I’ve been in the future. I’ve been in a new year, dazzled by the glory of my Spring bulbs, with that low sun so bright in my eyes that I’m blinded by beauty.

Patricia

A Moodscope member.