a Spring Sunday

Spring Flowers and the Green Corrie

Sunday mornings slip away so easily


A slow waking, fried breakfast, a mushroom omelette, a slice of Edam on Rye. Honey. A book to sink into, to step away from and be called back to. A kitchen window in spring. The kitchen door is open too and the blackbirds fill the space beyond with conversation. There is a bumblebee somewhere, loud and insistant. More than one. Kitchen window again: tulips do not appeal but the wild bluebells in the tub do and the heady, coconut gorse by the fence is popular.

The bumblebees are their own distraction - a different pattern. A darker brown? Buff-tailed? or Tawny? A different Tawny? Foragers for an early nest here in May, maybe even queens themselves stocking up for a brood of tender grubs tucked away behind stone. And then the Green Corrie draws me back with its gentle, evocative exploration of place and people, the friendship between Andrew Greig and the poet Norman MacCaig. A reflection on inspiration, on what gets us writing (in his case) or whatever, the influence of that older person who didn’t tell you what to do but encouraged and moved by doing it themselves.

The bumblebees are still a distraction and the morning is slipping away.

At The Loch Of The Green Corrie, Andrew Greig, Quercus, London 2010