Rescuing the over wintered geraniums that had not been watered: their dried petals fall like scarlet confetti and the wind blows them away. I get my hands into the flowers, gently pull away the old-dry-brown leaves and rediscover their smell: green herbs, the Mediterranean, something peppery, something lemony…

  

The second day of spring is bright and clear. Underneath the not yet budding sliver weeping pear our pulmonaria shakes in strong winds. Its micro-trumpet flowers are deep pink, Persian rose pink, and a painter’s light indigo.

The new tiles are old, old slate. Periwinkle, morning blue, midnight blue, independence blue, cool grey, blue grey. 

Three doves, inkblots against the rising sun, sit in the splayed, thin arms of the plum tree. The small white blossom is white-gold in the morning light.