From garden to glade: the magic of white wildflowers

Seasonal songs, softness and sketching: Spring serenades us

For extra tranquility, try listening to this letter—I record outdoors so you get to feel this place

All the time I am on my knees he sings. When I look up I can see him towards the top of the tree. I think he will tire of my presence but the melody continues. A string of notes and phrases repeated, most usually four times. Quartets punctuated by willow warbler and blackbird. It’s only when I finally raise my camera that the song thrush decides enough is enough, and flies away.

This week I bring you flowers from the woods, and from the garden. Amid the ripening green, the dots of yellow, quiet white haunts the glades. A warm welcome to you.

The skylark in the rushes

Heavens, but if I didn’t see it. Quietly following the song along the path, looking at the reeds and rushes fringing the burn-disguised-as-ditch. A small brown bird, low in the damp vegetation. I look up photos, some of which—in full throated song—strike me as having a passing resemblance to skylark. Of course I can’t be certain, but nobody else here sings like that: I finally see the grasshopper warbler.

Just a little colour

New paper, new crayon. Just a little colour. I’ve begun sketching the sea before I reach it. Next week, a self-directed artist’s retreat. Not far, but it will take me from this damp place where there is no boundary between earth and liquid to the edge of the land. From fresh water to salt.

I’m curious to see (sea?) how I respond to somewhere I don’t know well. Primarily to sketch and write in some form. Camera phone, compact as aide memoire only, at least that is the plan.

Slowly almost reluctantly, the sun appears. Suddenly it is the flowers that are in a hurry. I spend some time in the garden finding different ways to appreciate their small beauty. “Everything’s been done before.” Perhaps, but who wouldn’t want to lose themselves in their delicacy. There are always new lines to find, and I again err on the side of softness.

Out for a walk in the afternoon, butterflies are everywhere: orange tip, spotted wood, and a small white one that I’m less sure of. Green veined white perhaps?

Spring, announced

Two encounters, then silence. Just as I wonder if the cuckoos were simply passing through I hear them from the garden. I think to go looking, but the sound switches from pine wood to birch, back to pine, so I stay amid the flowers soaking up pale luminance like bee sipping nectar.

Silent bell of curves and swept lips, full, flaring. Quiet sister to blue. Light channeller. Keeper of magic. Look closely, and tell me you do not believe in fairies.

It was so good to hear your reaction to last week’s letter, knee pads and all: thank you. If you enjoy this week’s flowers, please share them with a friend.

Until next week,

A lovely way to say ‘thank you’ if you enjoy my words and images is to make a single small payment here.

PostScript

Read

Catching up with my backlog of reading reminds me of the richness here:

On random encounters, and kindness, Postcard from Lucky Luna by

Marya Hornbacher

. (Every time a masterclass in writing.)

—I wish you were here, coming up the street, headed our way, because Luna and I are still sitting on a bench with our faces turned toward the whole great cosmic flood of strangers and whatever comes next, still and always foolishly, foolishly, waving, like one of those waving lucky cats, the Maneki-neko, the ones that never turn off. They just keep waving hello.

Postcard from Lucky Luna

On what to say, and what to leave for the reader, The Harpocratic Oath by

North Sea Poets

.

There's a careful balance in poetry between what we say and what we don't. Silence is there for at least two reasons - as a means of avoiding saying what needs said, or of saying what needs said. Every word comes bedded in silence - we know that - there's a tiny silence between words; a wider one between verses; a huge silence surrounds each poem - just look at all that white paper and imagine what I'm not saying.

The Harpocratic Oath

On beauty.

Lizzie Swift

’s equally beautiful piece, The Liminal, feels a little like walking out into the current, and letting the water carry you away.

See the silvered grass and the sticky earth and the skeleton trees and the nook in the bracken where a small thing might rest and the portal tree with its crazy punk branches and the revelation of last autumn’s leaves flaming from the ash-hued murk and the water drip-drip-dripping and the fog, vignetting everything - oh my god it is so BEAUTIFUL.

The Liminal

Copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise credited