I am watching snowdrops. There is something insistent about them; they invite you to dwell in their quiet space for a while. At snowdrop level you appreciate the luminosity of moss and the scent of wet earth. They have a mint white flower. Their petals make a pendulum; you have to look inside to see the yellow and green. They are clean as toothpaste.

DSC_0382The air is full of the sound of chattering great tits and blue tits and long tailed tits that come marauding through the hazel. Suddenly the birdsong is replaced by a harsh roar of wind. Some ice falls onto the snowdrops.

            I go back into the caravan, but I can still see the lone snowdrop by the gatepost. I look up at it now and again, between pages. There is another storm and white hailstones are hurled from the sky with such ferocity that the down-force of air shakes the snowdrop violently on its stem. The hail stops and the snowdrop is still again. At night we see it glowing in the moonlight.