I see the season with its pea-green promise. Beguiling spring, scattering glitter on grass when we wake. I’m nose to nose with summer’s fragrant march. Yet I hear that subterranean preparation – stretching, bulging – and I whisper that I’m not ready. You might be trusting your tender flesh to breezy tickles and sunshine cuddles, you fool. What’s waiting deep under softening soil, lurking in the shadow of trees and the ice-clear gurgle of the beck? One night’s celebration and it can kill those buds, snap death at your brave new life and turn it all to mush. Have a care.
