I flipped over our calendars this morning (as ever, the annual calendar is put together from last year's favorite photos, which made for a unusually home-based selection, of course) - and the image was of roses. More particularly, the pink roses here, seen from the other direction - and they hadn't been pruned anything like as vigorously last year, so this is hardly a different-angled repeat.
But the flowers that really cut me to the heart today were those in my father's garden in London - images sent by a friend of him, and her, there - with the magnolia tree in (very) full blossom, the daffodils doing extremely well, the primroses thick on the ground - the absolute epitome of an English spring, and all ready for Easter. It's painful how something can be so viscerally present, and yet be 6,000 rather-difficult-to-navigate-right-now miles away ...
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