Outside my window, the night has fallen softly on this first day of the Celtic spring.  Although still naked, the trees across the street have lost some of their winter gauntness and you can just about make out the small protuberances of future leaf buds on the tips of their branches, which reach out into the silver-grey sky.  The black shape of a squirrel leaps fluidly about, one last foraging venture before sleep.  The gentle rain has ceased and there are glistening patches at the foot of the lampposts.  The curtains have been closed over the Victorian bay windows, revealing just a sliver of light through an unintended gap. The cars are parked outside the houses for the night.  

The Snow Moon is yet invisible, cloaked by a thick blanket of cloud.  I caught a glimpse of her dress rehearsal last night as, still waxing, she glowed through the skylight on our upstairs landing, casting a rectangle of bright white light on the carpet.  I had woken up for no apparent reason.  The cat was curled up at my feet, fast asleep, there was no sound from the neighbours on either side of us, and, judging by the extinguished street lights and pitch-darkness in our street, it must have been after one or one-thirty.  I stepped into the rectangle of light, looked up and stood moonbathing in the silver-white glow.  The Snow Moon, almost perfectly circular, was looking straight down at me and I wondered if she had roused me from my sleep.  She stared down, blindingly white, ribbons of cloud drifting across her face like locks of long hair in the breeze.  Now I wonder if I was invited to her dress rehearsal because the sky is too overcast for me to admire her in her full glory this evening.

The air feels calmer, gentler, today, after the unbridled, sometimes violent energy of the last two or three weeks, the time of year when spring feels like a bully trying to usurp winter’s throne before it is time.  My least favourite time of year.  The time of headaches, dizziness, weakness and foul moods ever since I was a child.  A time of instability and uncertainty. 

It’s Imbolc.  Spring matriculation day.  Spring has grown from an entitled teenager to an adult who knows she is equal, but not superior, to the other three seasons.  She can now focus on preparing to blossom and bloom over the next couple of weeks.

And so I bid goodbye to my beloved Winter.  Rest well, my gentle friend, and return with new magic up your sleeves when the nights grow long again.

Welcome, Spring, with your blossoms, your moody weather, unpredictable winds and temperamental showers.  I look forward to seeing the trees across the street grow a glossy green mane.

Now it’s also time for me to close the curtains in our house.  And as I approach the bedroom window, there, in the distance, slowly spreading from behind the horizon of black rooftops, a patch of silvery-white light, like gossamer over the now dark teal sky.  I wonder if it’s the Snow Moon rising.