Stippling

The unstoppable cycle of life is taking its toll. Winter is weakened but not yet beaten. The mighty oak gates of its grey stone fortress, which have dominated the landscape for what seems like an eternity, have begun to splinter from the persistent pounding of the battering ram of spring.
The Sun appears above the hilly Welsh horizon like an armour-clad knight on a rearing, snorting steed, encouraging and inspiring hoards of unborn leaves to burst from their buds and stipple the winter’s bare branches in shades of emerald green.
Day by day, second by second, blink by blink, the landscape around me swells with new life emerging.

But winter is not yet entirely subdued. It isn’t going to roll over like a puppy, no, far from it.
Massive rafts of dark grey clouds answer winter’s summons and rush in from their watery Atlantic home.
Driven by a chilly wind, the rain-laden clouds struggle to clear the surrounding ridges, where bare branches snag and tear large chunks from the belly of the passing leviathan.

The handing over of nature’s baton never goes smoothly. But, already, birds sing joyfully of the inevitable coming of spring’s victory.

Stippling becomes pointillism as flowers and blossoms bloom to delight the eye and soothe the mind.
The morning melody of bird song rises from the nearest tree to the furthest hedgerow and everywhere in between.
The sound of bleating lambs joins the avian orchestra as they frolic playfully on the lush green hillside.

Close your eyes and listen to spring, smell spring, then open your eyes and see the vibrancy of spring. You won’t be disappointed.

Happy Easter.