After what seems like an eternity of winter, the biting chill in the air is dissipating to give way to temperatures that are altogether more suitable (see: in double figures) and, if the sun is not always forthcoming with its rays, it is making more of a regular appearance to greet us. Yes, spring is finally in bloom. And I, for one, am very pleased to welcome in the new season.
Don’t get me wrong – winter does have its delights, and it will be rather sad to bid farewell to cosy nights in front of the fire accompanied by a mug of hot chocolate. Yet, spring is my favourite season, for a great number of reasons. As with so much in life, I enjoy it for the very small, simple but hugely satisfying pleasures it brings. Smelling the fresh, unmistakeably first-days-of-spring-like scent in the air; seeing the new green and blossom on the trees; not having to bundle yourself up in layer after layer (and, if you’re feeling particularly daring, venturing outside minus coat or jacket); choosing to take the slightly longer route while walking home to really enjoy the sunshine. All little things but things that make an overwhelming amount of difference to a day. Even the sound and feel of the word that represents the season brings to mind images full of brightness, action and motivation – we’re all somewhat coiled tight, hibernating against the harshness of winter and as spring arrives we’re released, bouncing free and getting a new lease of life.
This week’s featured poem by D.H. Lawrence also brings forth absolutely wonderful images of the season; the whole of the first stanza, with its ‘bursts up of bonfires green/wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes’ conjures up delicious treats for both the eyes and ears. The ongoing motif of fire is interesting, relating not only to the comparable heat of spring compared to the season just departed but also to its energy that comes on quietly yet quickly consumes and astounds.
The Enkindled Spring
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)