As late as march the woodlands are still clothed in green velvet, covering bough and tumbled rock. The dim late winter light still lies on the floor of churned mulch. Then suddenly fluffy bursts erupt along the delicate fingers and the ground is pricked with yearning petals, which thrive abruptly before the fresh leaves of the trees drain the sun. The shade clears and rots, the moss hangs in dismal strands, then fired in the mild breeze, the trees display once more their bare muscular limbs.
Only the toxic shoots of foxgloves still force their way up through the undergrowth, in the cataclysmic darkness of summer.