"My Lord, what a morning,
My Lord, what a morning,
My Lord, what a morning,
When the stars begin to fall."
Now before you say I have spelled morning wrong and anyway stars should be cherry petals, I know but this mooring the sun is out, admittedly it is chilly, yet it is a glorious spring day.
Even Mr Pheasant is full of it. R looked out of the window the other day to see him leap onto one of his two hen birds and 'Whizz-bang!' it was over. And right outside our window under the feeders.
The two cherry trees by the house are wonderful and loaded with blossom - Prunus taihaku, the great white cherry and Prunus shirotae with its horizontal branches and hanging flowers. With the latter you can stand underneath and look up into the blossom - wonderful.
One lot of plants that seed themselves and springs up in surprising places is honesty. We have both the red (really deep pink) and white. The best white has appeared by the compost heaps and is grown large on good feed.
Yesterday I cleared away grass from around a veritable hedge of redcurrant I have created with cuttings - every year stick a few in - and the blackbirds will be ecstatic when the fruit come.
No, I did not wear gloves, R.
Yes, that is why I am covered in scratches and cuts.
Yes, I am silly (and a bit sore) and brambled sliced. It is astonishing how a blade of tough grass can cut one.
No, I have not put plasters on this morning - I am trying to let them dry out and heal.
Yes, I could use superglue but knowing my propensity for clumsiness, I would probably end up stuck to myself and everything within reach (including the tube of glue).
Now, two plants, in the grass, that we like (ish) are daisies - ok - and R likes dandelions on the top bank. Trouble with the latter is that the do not stay there but crop up all over the place sending down their taproots.
And the daffodils are not over yet as later ones come into flower. The old ones need deadheading and later feeding so the bulbs are built up for next year.
My soon to be defunct willow tunnel/avenue is springing into leaf as are the other willows in the garden.
And everywhere there is colour - tulips planned and forgotten (and risen again), the forgetmenots edging the rose beds, the flowering currant. The pace at which the garden is moving is amazing. How can it be so empty for the winter and now so full?
So come on martins and swallows, our eaves are aching for your nests.
And to finish - the cover of Neil Curry's latest book - a fascinating read, an interesting idea.
Some amateur photographer did the cover image though - I wonder . . . . ?