Where, just a few days ago, a carpet of snowdrops greeted the eye, now it is the turn of the daffodils.
The sun was glinting off the wonderful yellow of the daffodil petals which almost glowed in the dappled shade of the woodland. It put me in mind of a poem from that most erudite word-smith, Winnie-the-Pooh!
Noise, By Pooh.
Oh, the butterflies are flying,
now the winter days are dying
and the primroses are trying
to be seen.
And the turtle doves are cooing,
and the woods are up and doing,
for the violets are blue-ing
in the green.
Oh, the honey-bees are gumming
on their little wings and humming,
that the summer which is coming
will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing, and the turtle doves are mooing,
which is why a Pooh is Poohing
in the sun.
For the spring is really springing;
you can see a skylark singing
and the bluebells, which are ringing,
can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn't cooing, but he's cucking and he's ooing.
And a Pooh is simply Poohing
like a bird.