SNOWDROPS

Geoffrey Grigson in his Englishman's Flora lists many other regional names for this plant - Candlemas Bells from Wiltshire, Death's Flower, Dewdrops, Dingle Bell, Drooping Bell, Drooping Lily and Eve's Tears from Somerset, Fair maids from Hampshire, Naked Maidens from the German Nackte Jungfrau or Dutch naakte wijfjes, Peace-Snow from the French perce-neige and there are others - Snowdroppers from Gloucestershire, White Bells or White 

Queen. 

I like the name Eve's Tears best.

In 1659 they were still referred to as early white bulbous violets by Sir Thomas Hanmer.

John Gerard in his herbal, page 147, Chapter 88, calls them bulbous violets but when it comes to what medicinal use they might have he only says - Touching the faculties of thefe bulbous Violets we haue nothing to fay, feeing that nothing is fet downe hereof by the antient Writers, nor anything obferued by the moderne, only they are maintained and cherifhed in gardens for the beautie and rareneffe of the floures, and fweetneff of their fmell.

Culpepper does not mention them at all.

 You can see, here by the woodland path, how splitting and replanting whilst still 'in the green' is spreading the plants. They are also self sowing themselves and each bulb clump is dividing and multiplying to form, we hope, a carpet.

But they are not the only flowers in the garden - apart from the odd rose the Corsican hellebore is coming into flower as is also the winter honeysuckle, odd crocus and witch hazel.

But it is the snowdrop that is the harbinger of hope to come.

To move on - The path to the veg beds is carpeted with thick moss. This is due to the wet weather we have had for the last few months. Today I have been scraping it off, a tedious laborious business.

I thought I might attack the moss with a vinegar spray but the sprayer is broken and corroded - I should have washed it out last year. Now I will need a new one.

And finally a poem - 

SNOWDROPS

(nothing is perfect)

i

Silently,

newborn

out of

woodland 

debris,

rise

optimistic

petals,

shining 

nonpareil

of

white,

delightful

rampant

oracles of

spring

spread

numberless

over

what was

dead, a

rapture 

of opalescent

pearls.

ii

And, in January, when first they came,

she would walk the garden,

bend, pick a few short stems

and place them in an egg-cup

by the clock that chimes the hours.

And now, each year, he takes that journey

up the woodland path she trod.

He stoops, takes the snowdrop buds

and puts them by the clock,

a small white sign of love.