 Every year they bloom here but never before have I seen them like this. A thousand yolks and a thousand more scatter the woodland floor, an imitation of the sun now hidden behind a March cloud. As a child I was never taken with them, they seemed so stark and brash compared to my beloved primroses that I would gently pick with tender fingers from the booming Devon banks, wrapping them in tinfoil and gifting them to family with all the joy of those delicate petals reflected on my face. Today though has been a revelation, so taken was I with the sight that I laid down amongst them. These are not meek nor shy flowers they stretch unashamedly so on tight citrus stems. Each petal appears to be covered in a glassy wax not too dissimilar to the wing cases of ladybirds. I wonder to myself what creature has the time to buff and shine each one. The leaves in opposition ever so courteously overlap so that I am reminded of lillypads on a pond. All above my head there are blue tits flickering amongst the branches with their cheery hysterics. I see the yellow of their breasts bouncing, perhaps they ventured too close to the celandines and got their story caught up with another, perhaps a rhyming one about butter. I close my eyes and nearly drift off but I stop myself in fear that I may wake from this dream. Next to me are a couple of flowers bent from my heavy human feet. I am given permission to take them home where I will add them to my growing herbarium. I think I shall it entitle it ' The Equinox Of Celandines' 
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