William Shakespeare 1564 – 1616
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As you with your shadow I with these did play.
I took this picture at the beginning of April. I’ve always loved spring everything comes alive, bare trees show signs of life sprouting leaves and blossom. This year it feels very different; in winter you can hide away behind dark nights and closed curtains but the brighter days and longer nights force you to face the absence of loved ones in the stark reality of them never returning.
The birds sing away on the trees oblivious to your lack of desire to sing without a care.
Like the blossoms on the trees that bloom, grow and fade; grief will lose its intensity and colour will return to life again.