It was 39 weeks ago was when I held these sweet warm garden-grown strawberries in my hands.
The first strawberry has braved its happy blossom open to the sun in expectation of bee visitors, and plum trees are warming their buds, preparing to unfurl their blooms into a blue sky. The night are still snappishly cold and crisp, perfect for star-gazing when the cloud stays away and the sun is sometimes warm enough to make you want to curl up on a rock, lizard-like.
It’s just a wonder at this transition time – a real wonder – where if you stop to notice it, you can actually feel the wheel of the season turning, the subtle change of the length of shadows which we try to mark and measure with our ticking clocks. But, we feel it.
I have that irresistible Spring restlessness – to plant vegetable seeds – like a lamb chasing its own feet around the fields – it feels like a compulsion – plant, plant, plant, sow, sow, sow, hastening the weekend, fingers into soil.