Change

March 13

The snowdrops are fading, their souls are elsewhere, they no longer speak, only their plump green ovaries glisten above the dry brown petals.  Soon they will go, leaving not a trace as leaves die and fall on the soil.  It was only when I picked some a month back to bring inside, that I realised they had a glorious honey scent.

For the moment, I’ve already dug up and replanted some of Ma’s Mules Ears (maybe Armine, or Benhall Beauty?  A thick green band above the bridges) in a position where I can see them from the house.  I broke some, no idea they had dug down so deep.  Nearly all the doubles, the green tipped Viridapice, the lovely singles are hidden by the patio edge, and elegant Elwesii with another is round the corner under the quince, and some should be moved to be admired from inside.

Best now are the primroses, also under the quince, with their faint delicate scent, and far nicer than the lurid blues reds and yellows for sale in the garden centres, though I have a blue one dumped under a bush which blooms.  Spring cyclamen flower, little Têteà Tête daffodils are opening, autumn cyclamen are a mat of marbled leaves.  In the long narrow bed along the front of the house the hellebores, speckled, plain, cream, blackest red, anemone centred, are flourishing and, great thrill, have self-seeded.  All Corsican varieties, easy.

Snowdrops – gone and forgotten.  No wonder the Romans had gods of the seasons!  It’s as though a cold, mean and grim god has gone, and in their place has come another, temperamental but generous.