Yesterday's snow has not yet melted this morning. It lies in a blanket on our hedge and lines the branches of trees. Dandelions and sad daffodils appear amid melting patches. The trees and gutters drip. Lumps of snow fall from rooftops and evergreen trees. Scattered through the Grove are the remains of several snowmen. Some are reduced to small, shapeless piles of snow. Other take on unintended shapes. One looks like a squirrel.
The petal of one of the tulips, which yesterday made such a striking impact in the snow, has become separated from its flowers. Lying alone and on its side, it looks like a pair of painted lips.
"That will be fifteen sixty four" says the clark in the Post Office having added up my transactions, and then adds: "Shakespeare's birthday!"