Spiders spin webs of candyfloss. Sighing butterflies stretch their wings over lightly scented flowers. Birds join beaks in joyous song.
But if there was one cowpat in Paradise, my lead boot would be sure to squelch it, hidden there, cunning as can be, entertaining bluebottles and flies.
For I am by nature and calling a pessimist - following that bleak British humour of snapped shoelaces and burst teabags, which predicts your horse in the office sweepstake will develop gout, your bag-for-life will have loose stitching and your kettle will lose its whistle.
My custard forms a skin before it leaves the packet - and when someone says look on the bright side, I seek shelter in a shadow.
In truth, bleak humour’s an affectation designed to raise smiles. Mockery of misfortune, especially when it’s comparatively trivial, is only bravado, a show.
For I do love life. During this pandemic there’s been so much talk of death and fear. And by quirk of fate, death has come to us in the Spring. But so has life.
Of course, with restrictions to prevent the spread of infection, your pensioner, and that’s me, has not been able to perambulate so much in Birkenhead, forever known to this column as our crusty old pie of a town.
But the little pond in our back garden is Paradise reclaimed.
Long ago, I called it the Pond of Genesis because taddies swim in its water, their tiny legs hidden in black skin. Soon they’ll stretch out and reach for land, as they did in the Creation, when man was just a twinkle in God’s eyes.
And this Spring has seen the rebirth of friendliness, arising from such dark and strange days. There has to be a greater distance between us now. But we wave and call greetings one to the other, where before we strode on, heads down, locked in our own thoughts.
Will we be able to sustain this new spirit when life returns to normal? Who knows.
Most of us have not learnt as much as we should have done from life. We’ve rushed to appointments, ignoring the more important happenings around us.
So we look at our watches more often than we see the flowers, or the rise and fall of the sun. Will we change. Time holds her mysteries. But I’m an optimist now - with pessimistic leanings!
