In my kitchen, framed by fruit bowls and a chipped old vase, sits a green pot plant - my cyclamen. Its leaves are full and stretching toward the sunshine in the overgrown garden beyond the glass.

The morning is my favourite time of day to take in this view, when the sun comes through the leaves and makes their green all yellow-bright. My cyclamen presses itself against the kitchen window, as if reaching toward its outdoor cousins. Stripes of sunlight respond, passing through glass and slanting along my walls and countertops, kissing the cyclamen leaves as they go.

Green is the operative colour of the season, exploding in every corner of every garden, in the treetops, from the cracks in pavements. We are through the barren time, and life can no longer be constrained but weaves freely around and back into its old familiar haunts.

I know no other colour with some many shades, and so much power to evoke the most simple and sincere joy. Brand new green, deep rich green, evergreen, the green of watered lawns, of brookside rushes, of beech avenues... it's almost too much to take in, this lifeblood colour pulsing through the veins on earth.

The local fields at dawn look like every untouched morning since the world began, their damp grass breathing pale mist. When you stand in them time slows, and all the history they've witnessed comes alive, old as the tree buds are new.

Welcome, March!

Welcome, sun-blushed sky and pink-tipped hedgerows.

Welcome, baby blue cloud-scudded sky.

Welcome, clear brook, mirror of trees.

I'm so happy I'm here to see you.