Yesterday we were huddled under a blanket of snow and fog. This morning the snowdrops, who were yesterday valiantly blooming through a dirty grey blanket are this morning standing with their feet in the water. From the look of the field opposite, which is more of a pond than a grass field, it must have been raining all night. And it is still raining heavily as I write. So for once the old adage that "rain before seven means fine before eleven" is not going to hold good unless it stops shortly. Charlotte Bronte put it even better, when she said
Life, believe, is not a dream,
so dark as sages say:
Oft a little morning rain
foretells a pleasant day!
But the rain is really most welcome, because it has dispelled the snow, which has hung about for days getting dirtier and dirtier. And with the rain has come what Robert Frost called "A Thawing Wind."
Come with rain, O loud Sou'wester,
bring the singer, bring the nester;
give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam.
The farmer is clad from head to foot in his rain gear and is splashing up and down the yard through giant puddles. Tess got wet through on her walk and indulged in a mad charging through the house half hour on her return. Conversely our water has been turned off as the builder is, as I write, fitting me a new sink in the kitchen.
And as to Robert Frost's "bring the singer", the blackbirds were singing merrily at daybreak this morning - a sure sign that Spring is going to win this battle.
Have a nice day.