under my hand flesh of flowers
under my hand warm landscape.

(c) Doris Lessing

twisted furze roots, tufts of rushes, or oozing lumps of fleshy fungi, which at this season lay scattered about the heath like the rotten liver and lungs of some colossal animal
(c) Thomas Hardy

The spring has come. It sprang like a witch on the broom, laughing, etching its mark on everything and everybody. It seems even, that it hides something carnal and carnivorous , promissing hot summer heat. It hisses, imping feathers into bare poor wings of human hearts, still it ghoulishly digs into the minds, poisoning and intoxicating them... Everything is of sweet, bitter, rotten, earthy scent... Nothing is fresh, cool and sparkling. No wind. Just wine, winding, twisting, stretching mind over and over...again and again.

A strange preception of the spring...