In a game of peek-a-boo, the Sun intermittently skips through the day behind cloud banks. By evening, the sky is clear and the garden is flooded with gold.
The recent rain has done its work and the grasses, trees, flowers, herbs have all drawn strength from the dampened soil. Their increase in turgor pressure irons out any thoughts of wilting. Leaf and flower buds are forced open.
I am endlessly fascinated by the spread of grasses, the variety of blades, the differences in growth patterns, the speed of growth. Then the mix of plants that coexist within the sward: daisies, buttercups, dandelions, clover, greater plantain and here clutches of cowslips that show no sign of being cowed by the growing competition.
The cowslips will outlast the bluebells, having already seen off the daffodils. They will still be lively when the grasses produce flowers.
At the start of this luminous evening a cuckoo calls out. Three distinct calls. Smooth, clear, soft, fluting hyphenated calls – as if delivered by a professional musician, without hurry. The pause between each call allows just enough time for a breath of breeze to carry the paired notes up over the village.
1st May, 2020