In February, it was all about winter lace, the pleasure of pairing something delicate with warm cardigans and thick woollen tights, a study in contrast that felt instinctive.

This is the month where everything begins to feel slightly undone in the best way possible. Coats are carried more often than worn, sleeves pushed up absentmindedly, collars left open.

There is something quietly subversive about wearing black in the spring.

There is a certain romance to the Month of March  despite its many gloomy days, when the sun does come out, like today, it’s glorious and warm and golden and carries with it a different kind of optimism than the other winter months.

There’s something about March that feels like holding your breath. Winter hasn’t fully released its grip – the mornings are still foggy and crisp, the light still slants low – and yet. And yet. Something is shifting.

March moves through the streets in a slow, luminous thread. Sunlight lingers longer on the backs of coats, on the quiet swell of skin beneath careful touch.