I try to identify trees with my Observer book of trees but it proves hard.
It’s one of the first days of spring and Middleton is full of lambs and daffodils.
Spring should make you happy but I feel slightly melancholic. There’s something about the change of a season that tells me I haven’t done enough, that I’m falling behind.
I tap and rattle children’s percussion next to a hedge where a dog barks at me in frustration. I leave the dog in peace and try to let the lambs get used to me.
Instead of writing something new I’m reminded of an old tune resting in the cobwebs of my faulty mind, it’s almost a nursery rhyme. I coax it back to life whilst I wait for the animals to stop being frightened.
I shouldn’t fear the changing of seasons. It should reassure me.