Walked in the park yesterday and found myself looking for signs of life on the trees.
No joy. Too early.
It was around 4.00p.m. and still light.
Yet felt as if something was being signalled.
Nearly a month after the shortest day.
And in that month all but unbroken cold.
Wanting it to be Spring doesn't make it so.
But in anticipation here's Philip Larkin.
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
and we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
This should be read just before listening to Vivaldi's Spring Suite....and then read again as it finishes.
Oh, and then admire a Monet!