A lazy sun crept through the drizzly sky to wash the winter from the silvering birches. Deep in the bracken shrouded recesses of the wall a single weasel slotted her snake-body through the labyrinthine crevices in search of the hapless mouse, Jenny wren ticked in alarm from the gritstone cappings.
For me spring begins with the purpling of the birch buds. As the days begin to lengthen the canopy of their woodland takes on a subtle burgundy hue as life inside the buds begins to stir. Gently swaying in the last breeze of winter they prepare to burst wide open, a green peppering atop a delicate forest.