I am writing this at 7.30 on Sunday night and it is still light.

In the garden I can hear a chorus of blackbirds serenading the setting sun. On the distant hills a kite calls, underpinned by the thud, thud, thud of some distant party beat. The clocks have sprung forward.

Spring has returned.

Oh my days, it feels as if winter has dragged its feet, pulling and tugging, wanting us ever sustained in its slumber. I have felt the light has been coming and this week’s unseasonal weather has caught our faces, turned to the sun, but it feels like this winter has been a long one.

My health is not good, and in the last few weeks I have lost too many days to resting and sleep, as if my hibernation is renewed rather than relinquished.

But this evening, with the call of bird song I feel my own energies stirring and with a burst of joy I realise the time and call out in surprise,

            ‘Bloody hell, it’s still light.’

My own serenade to spring.