Palm Sunday, 2017

Each year I welcome the long drifts of daffodils below our town cricket field, and I’m sad when they fade, all too soon, as they have now here in Oxfordshire. You can’t pin down the Spring, like a moth in a display cabinet. And yet, in the transience of Spring I sense eternity, elusive as the scent of the flowers of the season: elusive, but if those scents could be captured, caught and pinned down like the moth, eternity would be dead.

This has been perfect Palm Sunday weather, in England now. Easter next. This time of year tells of eternity. Life everlasting. A gentle breeze brings promise with it, and here in my garden the wind flowers bloom everywhere. I welcome these from their first appearance, tiny and shrinking in the January cold. They are blue. I call them wind flowers. They are a variety of an anemone, like the white wood anemones I remember from my childhood. Blue and gold go together, like the dial of a church clock.

The daffodils fade. I fade. I trust in the eternity which beckons, like the elusive scent of the flowers.

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