"Dove-grey cloak"

She came across the sea in a boat,
        (a wooden boat, a rowing boat);
She came across the sea in a dove-grey cloak,
         and she stood upon the sand in the rain.

She stepped across the grass,
        (the wet grass, sodden grass),
Out from under the trees in a dove-grey cloak,
         and I knew she was coming to me.

Up the path she came,
        (that steep path, muddy path);
She trudged up the path in her dove-grey cloak,
         and knocked at the knocker on the door.

They let her in, they took her cloak,
        (that wet cloak, drenched cloak);
They gave her brandy by the open fire,
         and then they sent for me.

They sent for me and I came,
        (down the staircase, old oak staircase),
Across the floor to the open fire,
         where she sat, waiting, for me.

         And what were the feelings that tumbled through my breast?
         (oh! proud breast, unforgiving breast!)
         Would I turn her again from my door?

I knelt at her feet, and kissed her hand,
        (and the tears coursed down my cheeks);
For she had gone because I sent her,
         but she returned to the need in me.

Topsy-turvy weather...

It is an English springtime tradition that the weather should hardly stay the same for two minutes together in April, and yesterday certainly followed tradition:
First it was hot, then it was cold, then it was dry, then it was raining (then it was hailing); then the wind dried everything up but brought the temperature down; then the sun came out and warmed it up again; now the sky is a deep azure blue, now it's a milky haze, now it's a dirty grey from horizon to horizon. But at least it's a useful topic for conversation! And not only that, but everyone seems to have seen or read a different weather forecast, so we can all argue in an amicable way about what's going to happen next...


 

"It's too cold..."

On the 2nd February (Groundhog day in America, Candlemas in England), there is a proverb that says overcast and cloudy weather on this day heralds an early spring; bright, sunny weather on the other hand, predicts forty more days of winter. Candlemas this year was bright and sunny...
However, those forty days should have finished round about the middle of March, and winter is still here. Unfortunately there is another weather proverb, this time for the day of the Chair of St Peter (or Washington's birthday in the US), on 22nd February, which says that the presence of ice on this day foretells another forty days of winter (and ice), which takes us well into April. As this latter proverb is of German origin I had hoped it wouldn't apply to us, but the continuing frosts, chill winds, and the layer of ice that still covers our garden pond, would seem to say otherwise.

However, picnics in bad weather is something of a British tradition, so yesterday, for an Easter treat, my father and I set off with a flask of home-made butternut squash soup, some home-made gluten-free 'Kentish Huffkins' (filled with buttery-egg, and manchego cheese), and the dog, to a nearby village with a very picturesque village green. Sitting in the car in the full sunshine, it was really quite warm behind glass. Outside however, as we took a brief walk around the green, the perishing cold wind pursued us at every turn, whipping our faces as we walked down one side and freezing the backs of our necks as we walked up the other. Despite the sunshine, it was not what you might call encouraging sort of weather, and we did not linger. We soon discovered we were not the only ones to feel this way, for when we got as far as the cricket pavilion we saw a notice attached to the railings, flapping in the breeze. It said:

"Happiness"

I am the winter sun coming up over the horizon;
I am a robin singing in a hawthorn tree;
I am a bunch of bright yellow daffodils;
I am a fountain pen with turquoise ink;
I am droplets hanging on a hedgerow;
I am bryony berries, strung along a fence like red fairy beads;
I am sweet sleep;

I am laughter;
I am a joke shared with a friend;
I am the softest fur on my dog;
I am fresh bed linen;
I am the solving of a cryptic crossword puzzle;
I am summer's heat;

I am the delicate lime green of the first leaves of spring;
I am bright orange and deep purple;
I am the smell of woodsmoke hanging in the crisp autumn air;
I am the smell of damp earth;
I am a vole running across the garden;
I am a blackbird singing at dusk;

I am chocolate slab;
I am home-made ice-cream;
I am pasta and pesto with peccorino cheese;
I am self-knowledge;

I am that high lonesome Bluegrass sound;
I am the deep throbbing of a helicopter as it flies low overhead;
I am rain drumming on the roof at night;
I am a red kite mewling to its mate;

I am a parcel from the postman;
I am an e-mail in my inbox;
I am Morecambe and Wise;
I am Calvin and Hobbes;
I am Pride and Prejudice re-read for the hundredth time;
I am a hug from a child;

I am puffy white clouds;
I am sunlight;
I am creamy-white plum blossom against a blue sky;
I am paddling in an icy cold stream;
I am strength in my limbs;
I am Psalm 19;

I am happy.

"The Lord will comfort Zion"

Ever since Epiphany it has been a time of celebration and rejoicing, of fun and festivity; a time to throw off the shackles of self-discipline and restraint, and throw ourselves instead into the business of enjoying ourselves. Next week, on Shrove Tuesday, will come the culmination of this time, when people around the world will stuff themselves silly in one last jubilant Carnival. After that will come Ash Wednesday, and the beginning of the forty dark days of Lent.

But though Lent is dark and dreary, and a time filled with self-restraint and self-denial, yet we know there will be a Light at the end of the tunnel, if only we can hold on and keep going. For God has promised to comfort us, and restore us; and in the end to bring us out of our prison of pain and fear and death, into a good land; a heavenly land; a land flowing with milk and honey...

And on this theme, and based on Isaiah 51: 3, I have written a song. It's called "The Lord will comfort Zion", and you can find my recording in the column on the right, under "Little Grey Rabbit's Music".

Thorny hawthorns

The robin sang to me from the hawthorn tree again this morning, though sadly there was no rising sun to be seen from behind the thick masses of grey cloud. It appeared later on however, and is now sending streaky tree shadows across the lawn.

After mentioning my previous robin serenade, a transatlantic friend, currently living on English shores, asked me if I would teach him how to identify the British Hawthorn. I replied that certainly I would, but I would endeavour to refrain from using the same lesson by which I myself learnt to identify this thorny tree. It happened in this way...
Some years ago, my father and I were walking in some wild parkland, high above Oxford, and my father was telling me about the different trees. Finally I felt the time had come for me to "repeat my lesson", so I walked boldly up to a hawthorn bush, stuck out my finger, and said "So this is a hawthor- OW!" Painful, but effective...

Life...

This morning I watched the sun come up - a great big, egg-yolk yellow ball, pulsing with life. On either side of it, the clouds spread out in baby pink, fading gradually into the pale blue of the wintry sky; and down below, on the horizon, hiding behind the spidery silhouettes of a row of bare trees, lay the Chilterns, all dressed in smoky purple.
Up above me, in a hawthorn tree, a robin warbled away, singing its heart out. What a way to welcome a new day! Life doesn't get much better...