Siegfried in Spring
Siegfried in spring is mud on your boots and rain on the windows. It is the smell of wet mornings as you take coffee on the doorstop so you can watch the fattening robin sing on a branch of the still-
bare oak tree.
Siegfried in spring is lambing on a cold Yorkshire moor in your old woolen cardigan, returning home to cider, ham, and dark cake.
Siegfried in spring is foil-wrapped chocolate eggs, hidden in new moss, the crook of a branch, an old wheelbarrow. They are easily found in sunlight, where the sun’s rays catch the coloured foil, but those tucked in the shade will lie unfound until a June sun reveals their hiding place.
In springtime, Siegfried is hot cross buns slathered in butter and apricot jam. You take them outdoors with strong tea until the cool evening air chases you indoors to Vivaldi and a fire that will soon be abandoned.
It is passing the scent of tulips on the hall table.
Springtime is planning for warm-weather adventures. It is hanging cotton dresses and walking about the house in canvas shoes.
It is the insistent cry of the garden.
Turn your compost Till your cover crop
Start your seeds
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