Sweet Cicely

April sees the cowslip, primrose and the daffodil bring colour again to the fields: to banish once more the drear grey of winter.

The hedge then made alive by new birdsong, by the blossom of the wild cherry and the blackthorn. The air is warm and the scent is on the wing.

The roadside now edged by lace Cowparsley and the May, the Chestnut trees in bloom: in the apple trees a gentle hum as the hives test and taste their blossom above the early orchid.

And Nature now in longer hours goes tumbling in its profusion.

Cuckoos call in June over warm grass, golden with the King Cup and the Columbine, Spearwort and the Dog Rose. Speedwell the Willowherb and Bittercress, Sea Bindweed and Stonecrop.

Then, beneath the sky of a burning July Cinquefoil, Chamomile and Meadowsweet scent the pasture. The shades harbour Monkshood, Cranesbill, Bellflower and Corn Cockle.

Past the Solstice then, in slowly shortening days, to Harvest as the flowers fade to seed and fruit.

The evenings turn golden.

All this natural world grows and prospers well as before, without the helping hand of man. All below the eternal moon in all her guises, the stars and the sun.

But amidst all this beauty Cicely will never pick the wild flower, not a one.

For she loves them all in there season and in their place: by stream or along the lane or in the meadow at dusk.

She loves the flowers of her garden and with tender care will grow and gather the work of patient hand and eye: planned and nurtured through winter's storms and blighting frosts and Summer's cruellest heat. Until each in its own time takes its turn to surround the cottage in a changing sea of colour.

It is art and artifice of a kind it is true - but one which makes the picking of a posy or a garland an innocent delight.

And so it is she goes now with her basket to see what new colour the day has given.