Feast day of Saint Augustine of Canterbury, the Eighth Year in the Reign of King Richard
And so after the celebration of Spring with a joyful May Day, the planting begins. The farms in the outskirts of London hum with activity and the smell of fresh-turned earth is in the air, even on the Shambles where the unlikely possibility delights the senses even more. Early morning frosts still plague my ablutions, however. Breaking through the thin layer of ice on the water bucket for a cold slap in the morning can wake any man, especially a man who was in his cups the night before.
But I would not have you think I was immune to the chorus of birds and the budding of twigs. I am not the morose beast you think me. I was once a man who strolled gardens, who extolled on a fine orchard, and who avidly listened to the advice of his hedge warden.
A day long past.
The fall of a blossom can still make me smile, and I can appreciate the humorous waddling of goslings behind their stout mother. The warm sun on my face can conjure deep pleasure. I am capable of enjoying London for itself as well as for the fact that many a lady can be seen sporting the newest fabrics from France. Yes, I do enjoy their curvaceous silhouettes right well. And, a little surprisingly, many a coy lass have sought my eye, even though I wear my rags. Yes, I am satisfied that after all these years I have not lost my touch.
Spring it is.
