Senses stirred by blackthorn’s snow

“Into the scented woods we’ll go,” wrote the poet and novelist Mary Webb, “And see the blackthorn swim in snow.” The woods are scented by things I can barely detect: violets, anemones, sorrel, bud burst, and I have to imagine their combined fragrance set against the edgy pong of wild garlic leaves and vagrant smells wafting through the woods on the breeze.

Close up, the flowers recall Japanese or Chinese paintings – star-like, fragile yet sharp, ephemeral yet eternal