The moment before all the flowers. When the grass begins to re-grow. When new life explodes. A piece then in praise of green. Of course, I love the giant cherry tree by the bus stop. I obsess over the buds as they unfurl. I wait impatiently for delicate clouds of whites and creams and pinks. Like Japanese sakura. I yearn for apple and pear blossom and – my favourite – quince. But the moment before everything springs is also dear to me. The edges of the towpath I walk to work on re-awaken. A cascade of vivid greens. The rampant spread of grasses, herbs, even weeds, coloured like Robin Hood in comics. The views from our windows are slowly transformed. The priory will soon be hidden behind the living wall of trees. Our walks over the heath are more intensely alive. Tree leaf, particularly, soft like newborn butterflies. A piece perhaps also in praise of quiet pots. Our white stellata flowers were stained by brick-red Saharan rain. Now almost all replaced by hoped-for hopeful leaf. The roses are pinked with fresh growth and bud. Everything impatient to express itself. The pots of early-scented white daffodil are fast headed towards flower. Later tulips hold back, patiently waiting their turn. The pheasant’s eye narcissi is yet to be seen. Whitsun lily, they call them in Denmark. This, then, is the time of leaf. The breathe-in before the exhale. There will be time enough for the spread of the yellows: the bright star-like celandine and dandelion. Time enough too for the early summer’s garden-centre shopping. For peat-free compost for refreshing pots. For all the colours, the annuals and perennials. For brighter pinks and reds and oranges. For geums and geraniums. Look around now. At roadside verges, at parklands and fields. Setting for hares and rabbits, homes for nesting skylarks. This is spring before the pomp. The quiet moments too easy to miss before they’re gone.