118. 11.05.2012 I can see clearly now

118. 11.05.2012 I can see clearly now

The man looked out of the window.

Beyond the leaded panes the world was dripping and dull and ashen and bleak.

Like a sulking diva, spring had decided to disappoint her adoring fans. Fans who had waited all through the winter for what was billed as a  gala performance. There was to be no glittering or sparkling performance. Not this year.

 Without the pageant of spring, the  valley  was bereft of colour and joy and slumbered half way between dormancy and despondence.

The mud came up to the  farmer's ankles and his dog patted about in the  week rotting shoots in the fields. It was, they said, in smug, faux jolly voices  “the  wettest spring since records began”. The farmer shook his head and for once  agreed with the hind sight speaking  forecasters in their nice suits in the city far away.

 A  blackbird sat quietly and morosely on her damp nest. She knew that her eggs should be the same colour as the sky. They weren’t.  She so wanted her home to be warm and cosy. She thought back to the days of her own childhood. Blue and fluffy skies,  sunny and full of hope. Not like this.  She hated this  spiny miserable place. She hated it so much she couldn't even be bothered singing in the morning.

 The hawthorns  cried quietly to themselves, but nobody could hear them above the wind. Done  up to the nines in their frothy blooms of white. Dressed to impress. But the bees stayed away and slumbered and dozed in their empty hives.

The sheep looked  to her twins. They should be jumping and bouncing. They weren’t. She too remembered the carefree days of her childhood.

Within the garden wall, the slates on the shed roof lay like fallen dominoes. Like the hawthorn, they've put on their best finery. They always do when it rains but nobody ever  appreciates the effort they go to. They sighed and shifted gently in a gust.  Nobody ever appreciated their  rich hues of green and turquoise and the rainbow of  grey.  Neither did the man behind the splashed panes. They did their best to shelter the  damp remnants of last winter's  coal that shuddered  in the darkest corner, but the angry rain drove the dampness through the gaps.

Like the sky,  and the valley and the world outside, the man's  face was ashen and grey.  And the clouds in his head hung  low and black.

For five days. Black and endless. A black and endless migraine. Take one twice a day. Do not exceed daily dose. If symptoms persist... If symptoms persist? Do what exactly?

An underlying headache with the power and sound of a fairground generator. Dull and never ending and without the screams and cries of delight or the promise of candy floss for the way home.

Somewhere behind the left eye, there are fireworks. Diamond jubilee fireworks and hand held sparklers all in full  display. The right eye doesn’t see them but isn’t missing out.  If there was a crowd they would be oohing and cooing with delight. But to be brutally frank, the only person to see them just wishes he could turn his back and gaze at the cold black clouds instead. 

And then, after a week, there's a break. The evening sun peeps out, the clouds turn to apricot and peach and custard and raspberry ripple ice cream, the blackbird feels a sudden urge to sing to her husband and to  her neighbours and to everyone else around. The  sheep casts an eye towards her bouncing offspring hoping that they don’t over do it on the first day  and the cowslips on the high meadows shake  off the droplets and shout with yellow joy.

Today's picture : a brief moment of spring on Bryn Pydew amongst the swathes of cowslip.