DaffodilsIt's days like today that make me very happy to be living in the fens of Eastern England.
I was driving to my local T***o (why should I advertise?) along the A17 to Holbeach, which is the road to 'Mother' Boston, and the bulb fields are all in bloom.
The daffodils have centre stage at the moment, huge blocks of yellow in strips which spread from horizon to horizon, from a delicate almost papery white to a brash, swaggering 'in your face' golden brassy yellow.
But the most wonderful of all are the escapees - or, indeed some are 'born free'! - they fill every verge, every ditch, every tiny area of grass until there is not a space left. And they flaunt their freedom.
The cultivars all stand in regimented, though impressive, lines like soldiers on parade; but the 'wild' ones revel in their freedom: not for them the straight lines - they stand proudly in tall clumps or short clumps, free to be themselves, free to bloom or not to bloom, to be short, or tall, to be tiny and discreet or to be huge and flamboyant .
They will not have their heads lopped off and be dug up and sold: no-one will reproach them if they choose not to bloom this year: they will be all the more appreciated next year.
I love them.
Words by Marie Cadavieco
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Written on 2023-04-22 at 10:54
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Alan J Ripley
by Marie Cadavieco
Tanka for Autumn