The seasons are a changing. I can feel spring – the warm sun burning on my face after so many long months away. I can smell spring – the aroma of freshly cut grass. I can hear spring – the orchestra of birds singing in the early morning with the rise of the sun. I can see spring – the dull, wet earth comes to life as snowdrops, daffs and crocuses bloom, while the cherry blosson fills the sky above.
I can’t taste spring though. I gave it some thought. But there is no taste to spring that brings memories of seasons past to life. Mrs P suggests the taste of fruit. That might be true to her, having been brought up in Mexico. But I was brought up in a world where supermarkets have the fruits of the world on shelves all year round. No sooner have the last of the English blackberries been picked off the bushes in August, than we have Mexican blackberries ready to replace them.
There is no taste of spring. I declare that to be so. But I welcome suggestions to the contrary. I blame globalisation. It’s an easy horse to whip.
