Another Maytime and the hawthorn blossom covers the wild ground, said to conceal a World War Two bunker at the end of my road.
Crush a few feathery blooms of cow parsley and the herb scent lingers on my palms. The dense brambles, in their Springtime green, bar my entry to the thicket and bird sanctuary just across the racing road.
Another year. The Feast of Corpus Christi today. In Church Meadow, last Sunday beneath the tower, youngsters in whites took part in a cricket match. The pollarded willow quite near the wicket, will grow again. A year or two back this field came close to being flooded, when the river by the old Rectory burst its banks.
Now, this afternoon, I’m thankful for my garden sanctuary, very aware that across the Middle East there is no sanctuary for thousands.
There is a blue butterfly around the rose bushes which are just coming into bud.
And the sky is blue, to the North East. In the hedges a few buds of elderflower begin to bloom
The 1939-45 War: the refugees of today.
For so many, this place, my garden with the traffic passing a few yards away, would be Paradise.