Sparrow on tanalised, wooden fence-post. Taken at my brother's farm in June.
At the moment I am without a camera. It is hard not to be able to take photos of spring - such as the abundance of plum blossom around our house. However, I would rather K. has it just now so that she can try out for a photo comp.
Meanwhile, I am having to commit to memory such sights as the one I see each morning in the Botanical Gardens, of purple crocuses covering a patch of lawn. Every day they open up a little wider. And then back in our own garden, the emerging kowhai flowers. The blue matchheads. The new-green koro of unfurling ferns.
I have spent the day pottering. I did a little sweeping - spider webs from walls, leaves from gutters and paths. And in the garden, I did a little 'scratching' - I can't in all good conscience call it actual weeding.
I also took some time today to sit outside and finish reading 'Mr Pip' by Lloyd Jones. This book has been short-listed for the Booker Prize. I prefer his earlier book, 'The Book of Fame.' 'Mr Pip' wasn't as riveting as I thought it was going to be.
A. called round with a bunch of daffodils from her garden. The scent of them immediately transports me back to being a kid on a Saturday, out rambling the paddocks around our home and spotting a yellow sea of wild daffodils. As we make for them, an annoyed flock of geese we've disturbed, waddle and yell ahead of us. We pick huge bunches and bury our noses into the cool, astringent scent. We feel the run of cold, sticky sap trickle down our thumbs, under our cuffs and all the way to our elbows.