Well, not actually a cuckoo as such, but a cuckoo flower.
March went out like a lamb and it’s been gloriously warm recently – so much so that I am afraid we have already had our summer – so I had begun to wonder what had happened to the April I know and love who provides us with such constantly changing weather that we are never short of a topic of conversation.
I was reassured that she hadn’t forgotten us last night, as the few spots of rain that accompanied me on my way back from the supermarket mid-afternoon were followed by more and more until it became quite torrential.
This morning everything is washed and fresh and although a lot of the blossom has been beaten from the trees, they are still rather lovely in the pallid sunshine.
Unless it brightens up a bit more and the breeze calms down a bit, I think the seat by the river will remain empty, though.
I know I posted this just under a year ago, but I think perhaps it bears repeating:
While others bundle and bunch
under umbrellas, shrug
into pak-a-macs and hunch deep
into their collars, their faces
against the elements, she
at raindrops and laughs
glitter from her hair.