I can see Spring and her fine colours from afar. I long to stand under the cherry blossom tree as it rains confetti down on me. Instead I stand in real rain, hazy, pattering, smatterings of daffodils pressed against barbed wire.
So they closed the formal garden at wollaton Park but I could look in on it from outside
I stand in the dilapidated chapel. Paint peeling from the walls like the bark of a silver birch. Dull light cascades in from high archways. I now approach the manor, in through the kissing gate kissed with moss and dew. A ****** of crows battle across the battlements in still air.