A pile of leaves collected from the floor of a Eucalyptus glade, picked up by me at random while in Australia and stuffed in the pouch in my notebook, summons the warmth of the sun.
Outside my window the arctic winds of winter continue to blast the brave efforts of Spring to claim her time. It is unusual for us in the British Isles to experience a fixed weather pattern; this dry cold penetrating wind from the North East has remained with us for many weeks in spite of the lambs in the fields and the daffodils in the verges.
Trapped in these subtle coloured leaves is the warmth of the same sun above the clouds today. Dusty hews tell of a place baked dry in an Australian summer where hot winds blow and suck the moisture from the earth.
I rub my hands together over the leaves as if it were a fire and I feel the warmth of the latent summer sun.
Soon a warm sun will come to us and ignite our summer.