The grass has been a spring meadow, studded with primroses, daisies, violets, narcissi, the odd grape hyacinth and bluebell, and even a few naturalising cyclamen. When nearly knee-high, it has to be cut at last – a beastly job, choking the inadequate mower. It also takes an inordinate time to guide the mower in dumpy arabesques around the primmies
circumambulate ungraceful wedges of turf round the spring bulbs
and leave strange linear features which will turn into strange linear colonies of bluebells next year. Because of course I want to preserve and develop this jewelled turf and enjoy it again each spring. Meantime – we do look a bit odd.
Elsewhere, the now-venerable crab apple is about to burst into the full performance. Who knows how many thousands of blossoms? I counted forty on a six-inch twig.
This tree holds its crabs well, and has been feeding the birds all winter; now the last shrivelled fruits are being pushed off by the new leaves and flowers.
A very different creature, the pittosporum is turning its inside-out black flowers …
… strange, very strange … (even stranger if you click for full size image) …
… until, as daylight fades, they set loose their perfume.