In March the long, cold, dark of winter slips from the north. The chunky snows wither and fade like morning fog upon the green lakes of the forest while the wood and earth pop and swell out their heady scents into a world eager for the memory of spring. I am lost in The Meadows beneath Edinburgh, kicking through a sea of emerald green blades cut by a million yawning purple and yellow and white reminders that the darkness never lasts. The Crocuses are blooming.
All across the great and ancient wonder of Edinburgh, frigid winds whip down from the looming crags to hammer the coats of wanderers through the cobbled Old Town. I can feel my cheeks going frosted red and the wind-tears turning into crystals beyond the warmth of my eyes. Down the closes and across the parks, all that I look upon breaks the mind. I crouch in the sodden grass, holding this moment far too long for the comfort of passers-by. Even looking at it now, years later, there is a repair of the ephemeral bits I keep inside my shell. In the pale blue air Arthur’s Seat and the Salisbury Crags and Edinburgh Castle gaze upon the scene, as they have ever done, resonant and reflective.