This is the time of year when that most beautiful of scents, elusive and yet unmistakable, floats around, though open car windows, or while walking down a quiet lane, or even from a lucky person’s garden, it is May and it is the scent of may blossom which I love and feel almost intoxicated by. I haven’t seen much this year, we haven’t been out and about as much, but I have smelt it, drifting in the warm air. Last year I challenged myself to write a hundred words each day for a hundred days, and after driving through the nearby countryside, I saw such an idyllic scene – I can see it now, but sadly I have no idea where it was. Even more sadly I have no images to share, so instead I have my other favourite flower, irises
This is what I wrote last year:
Summer lovely with tumbling white may, with Queen Anne’s lace, cottage gardens spilling over, purple cascades tumbling down limestone walls. Early summer with that soft light casting no shadows, but the nacreous sky a cheerful gentle blue, the clouds pastel daubs above the gentle hills.
The rhynes are still, reflecting light, a swan standing in a meadow scratching its underwing – did it leave the white down I saw floating on duckweed in a ditch?
The landscape, though real, is like an image, cheerful, engaging, flattened somehow but alive.
I want to stop, take a picture, instead I must remember it.