Another fantastic day in Somerset. We'd been shopping and as I sat luxuriating in the warm over the yard-arm sun, nodding off gently to the sound of woodpigeon scoffing the last of the grain, these tulips caught my eye. I was never that keen on tulips as a rake or a buck. Always seeing them as the unfashionably too late for the ball after the triumphant arrival of the narcissus spring. Recently however, cajoled by my superior gardening partner, strange and wondrous beings have filled pots around the domicile. Colours of warm honey mixed with satanic leaning inks fill various containers. Reds deeper than a Cardinals cape inter planted with the zingiest of day-glo yellow and greens. With the sun filtering through the newly opened cups, a polychromatic scale of light and dark infused the hue before me. I sat and watched for a goodly while.
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