A few months ago I wrote about the morning view from my window. In particular, I wrote about living on the bend of an L-shaped road and being able to see down it; down to the very end, to rooftops beyond which the sun would rise. I wrote about being able to see the day's promise beginning to suffuse the dusky sky, and about cloudy days when I couldn't see the sun at all, just a gradual, dawning lightness.
That was winter, my first winter with this view. And those were bare branch days, those upraised skeletal silhouettes providing a dramatic foreground throwing the pink and gold hues into even sharper relief. Even a few weeks ago, those branches were still there, unadorned. But not now; now, green-gold fills the foreground, bringing brightness to even the dullest day. Now, even if I were up and praying early enough, I wouldn't be able to see that low, pinky smudge in the distance, or the sun appear above the rooftops to begin its slow, stately, upwards progress. Instead, my first sight of the sun is of a pale ball of dazzling light already suspended above us, flooding light into the room and transforming the laburnum into blazing gold.
Seen or unseen, I wrote in January, the sun rises... unaware that spring's advent would mean precisely this for me!
Yes, there is a part of me which misses those dramatic wintry scenes: but a larger part rejoices in new life and greenery, in sunshine, wisteria, the sharp scent of lilies of the valley... and of course, in laburnum's cascading gold. And as April seeps into May, late spring oozing into early summer, I wonder what fresh surprises this new season will bring to L's bend...?
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