The farm is overgrown but covered in meadow flowers, and I can’t bear to cut them down. The daisies are over my head, the poppies that will soon carpet the fields are just starting, and there are a lot of as yet unidentified smaller plants stippling the grass. In front of my desk there is an apricot tree which this weekend is covered in white-pink blossom and several types of small birds, fighting for a position on the top bough. I feel as if I’m being hurried along to the next season before I’m ready for it. A friend has died and it really should be raining and overcast, but nature rules.