A trickle, a gentle seep, merging in places to form isolated puddles of indigo; a woodland rushing headlong into spring. Within days the floor will be awash with bluebells; hawthorn and hazel already mist the bare branches with green. The trees that survived another winter breath out their leaves to welcome the warmth. Words drift in on the incoming tide, collect on the blue strand line, enough for a paragraph.
Trees of Sanctuary 