The stubbornness of snowdrops
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Version 0 of 1. The eye is drawn to white from far off, to a dinner-plate-sized clump of snowdrops on a bend in the brook. Whiter than swans or gulls on the river; whiter than smatters of snow on the Stiperstones; whiter than lines on the road or polypropylene sacks of asbestos fly-tipped in the wood – there is something both vestal and venal in snowdrops. Flowering white for purity and moon-white milk in plenty of time for Candlemas and Imbolc on 1 February, this little clump was not planted by anyone; its bulbs were washed down in a flood many years ago. As well as all that religious symbolism and emotional feelings for the coming spring, snowdrops have a stubborn streak. There is something belligerent in their timing. Yes, there is joy in the reassurance of snowdrops for a world which has lost so many seasonal signatures. But there is something mechanically insistent, perfunctory and routine corrupting their beauty too. Looking closely at the flowers, it is perhaps the vividness of the green dots and dashes in them which transcend both vestal and venal to become vernal. Too much whiteness blinds, and I almost miss the black backpack lying next to the snowdrops by the brook. Inside is a mess of damp clothes and a little purse of small change and a couple of bank cards. The bag feels heavy with untold stories, secrets and worries: how it got there, who it belongs to, what to do with it. As I climb up the bank from the brook, taking the bag to hand in, my eye is drawn through all the winter-washed brown-green-greys back to the patch of white. It's a colour as shrill as the tiveet-tiveet sound the tawny owl makes when cornered by jays. Whatever strange or sinister things happen, the snowdrops remain insistent, implacable. |