Snowdrops fading, primroses pale yellow in small flower pools. Shy, dark violets hidden in secret places and on the fresh blackthorn twigs the tightest bead-balls of blossom. Magpies have tumbled tangled twigs into the blackthorn bushes and are courting fierce and harsh outside my studio. Daylight hours linger longer before the night chases them away. March winds dance with April showers. It will be a month of rainbows.
Woke with an image of a gril working on a patchwork, thinking about tools for stitching and all the scraps of stories that are held in the paper templates in patchwork quilts of old, a mosaic of memories. Possession. Now I understand what A S Byatt meant by that title. Possession.