The First Day of Spring with Mrs Miniver and me

It was a Wedgwood day, 
with white clouds delicately modelled in relief 
against a sky of pale pure blue. 
The best of England, thought Mrs Miniver, 

as opposed to countries with reasonable climates, 

is that it is not only once a year that you can say,

"This is the first day of spring." 

She had already said it twice since Christmas - once in January, 
when they had driven across the Marsh to the sea 
and it had been warm enough to lie on the sand without a coat;

(We cycled out to some marshland near us early this morning.)

 and once in February when she had taken the children 

for a lunch picnic in Kensington Gardens. 

The grass had been scattered with twigs from the previous night's gale 
and by the next afternoon it was snowing: 
but while it lasted that day had been part of the authentic currency of spring -

 a stray coin tossed down carelessly on account.

A small and very damaged painting by Paul Maitland

called Kensington Gardens- a secluded spot.

A stray coin tossed down at my feet 

when I had to clear an aunt's cottage after she died.

It was impossible to see any detail 
but a picture restorer took pity on it

and cleaned it just enough so that we could discern 
this Edwardian lady perched on a shooting stick.