Our cherry plum tree is in blossom. All at once its brittle twigs are lit with white. Sparrows plunge in and out of the gently scented branches like children playing in a fountain. A blackbird sings from the very top – a single silhouette in the brilliance.

The bloom is so bright that you can see the tree from halfway down the village. At twilight, it lights up the gathering darkness like a shooting star; through the night, it is a moon orbiting the garden. At dawn it blazes like a flare. Sometimes, I just stand at the window watching.