We are in the middle of a most blazing spring, here at Burrowye.The ornamental cherry that James keeps wanting me to prune is a massive buzzing pink afro boa of a thing. Plums are declaring themselves with white blossom in the paddock. Some bulbs survived our rooting pig, and our rooting pig has not survived us. After three years of bob cats and lawn mowers the lawns around the homestead are finally starting to sweep. Even the pile of leaves and seeds under the liquid amber looks kind of regular and deliberate. I was discussing the Japanese sentiment for seasons with our guest Tray the other day. Cherry blossom parties are muddy wet slushy drunk kinds of things. A clear day under the confetti is a superb thing, but most parties are held between puddles and raindrops, mud and tears. There is a melancholy in the froth, a nostalgia for spent youth, heartache for passing beauty. I tried and failed to catch this in words, years ago:
I was a tree a buzz
A blazing barren plum
How should I mourn
How many more must come
No tears for rain around here – we had a few points this week. Hundred thousand dollar rain we called it. Million dollar rain according to the newspapers. So the garden looks nearly amazing, there is a power of feed in the paddocks, we have good home grown meat in the freezer, a vegetable patch ready to go, two fine children….and all this incredible beauty is making me feel a bit funny. Could be nothing more than pollen.