It had been a week since the icicles dropped off the dustbins, creating puddles of water on the floor. The daffodils had created light in the world of whiteness. The snow had gradually melted, after two weeks of heavy downpour. The surface of the pavement was still covered in salt, and the streams were still covered in ice, but you could tell that spring was coming.
The fields grew spurts of green, covering the world in a layer of shamrock paint. The birds flew over, glancing to see if any worms were slithering across the green, nibbling at the leaves. They would dive down, grabbing the worm in their clutches.
The tulips burst open, revealing the colours of joy: pink, yellow, orange, red, purple. The trees’ blossom came out in pink balls, slowly touching a pompom to each branch. The grass grew back, defeating the wet mud that lay on top of it. The sun rose into the sky, melting the touches of ice that remained. It was funny to think that one week ago, the world was white. There were no flowers on the ground, no leaves on the trees. The rivers were frozen over, clusters of people huddling together next to the fire, and now the doors were open, leading to the outside world.
Animals came out from hiding: hedgehogs, running across the bushes, curling up in tight prickly balls; badgers, poking their noses out and swiftly jumping back down into the depths of their setts; toads, jumping out of the ponds, skipping along the grass, happy to see the sun one year more; butterflies, prancing across the blue sky.
Cotton candy was placed across the blue, some touching the sun with a pink shadow. At night, the sky turned violet and orange. The blend crossed over the world; silhouettes created by the trees. Birds flew over the fields, getting ready for the dawn chorus.
Early in the morning, the birds called out. The sun rose, blinding everyone who looked at it. Its rays flew over the world, telling people to wake up. People opened their curtains, letting in these rays, gazing for hours as the birds flew over the pink sky.
A single tree could be looked at for hours on end. The branches twisting upwards, blossom sitting on the end of every branch. Every colour was dotted on a tree, somewhere. The red and golden leaves had fallen from the now pink trees months ago, making the crunch on the ground. In winter, the trees had been left shivering in the darkness, empty and alone. Now, they were covered in the pink balls of blossom.
The gardens of the houses were filled with families having water fights, running around the sprinkler, lying in the pool. It seemed that in the one week, people had got used to spring. The cold had been freezing. The freezing had been bitter and now, in only spring, it seemed like summer.