The Captain's Verses : A Soldier's Love Letter From The Desert

You will come with me,

in that hour I wait for you,

in that hour and in every hour,

in every hour I wait for you.

And when the sadness that I hate

comes knocking at your door,

tell it that I am waiting for you

and when loneliness wants you to change

the ring in which my name is written,

then tell loneliness to talk to me,

tell it that I had to march

because I am a soldier,

and that there where I am,

under rain or

underfire,

my love, I am waiting for you,

I wait for you in the harshest desert

and by the flowering lemon tree,

in every land where life exists,

where spring is born,

my love, I wait for you.

If they say to you: "That man

does not love you," remember

that my feet are alone in this night, and they

search for the sweet, tiny feet I adore...

...and your soul which I awoke

so that it should keep on singing

until the end of life...

My love, I am waiting for you.

Farewell, my love, I am waiting for you.

My love, my love, I am waiting for you...

And so this letter ends

without any sadness;

my feet are firm on the ground,

my hand writes this letter on my travels

and in the middle of life I shall be

always

next to my friend, facing the enemy,

with your name on my lips

and a kiss that never

went away from yours.

Pablo Neruda: The Captain's Verses

I shall complain no more about failing to meet the potting up deadline for hyacinths to flower in time for Christmas. There can be so much excess at Christmas; colours, lights, details, lists, shopping, baking, tidying, Masses, Christmas cards to post and the rooms to decorate. In all of this the simple colours of the bowls of spring bulbs are lost. Better to leave them rooting away in the icy darkness of the outhouses, and bring them into the light and warmth after the Feast of the Epiphany.

The seemingly grey and empty time that appears after the putting away of the tree and its sparkling baubles, is swept away by the beauty and scent of the spring bulbs, Paperwhite Narcissi, "Bridal Crown" all the way from the Holy Land, and as here, Dutch hyacinths. I place bowlfuls on all the window ledges and once the blooms open to the warmth and sunlight, the rooms are filled with their powerful scent. My January and February are filled with sunlight and snow and the scent of spring. Gaudium et spes. And my year stretches ahead with delight.

And On And On It Snows

"Our snow was not only shaken from the whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?

"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all the children could hear was a ringing of bells."

"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"

"I mean the bells that the children could hear were inside them."

"Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints in the hidden pavements."
"Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-coloured snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept."

Dylan Thomas: A Child's Christmas in Wales

Hello Beautiful: Galanthus Nivalis

Galanthus nivalis, the common snowdrop, signals that winter is coming to an end, that spring is just around the corner.