This time of year I drive down increasingly and riotously green country lanes all frantic with the eruptions of life, hedgerows crammed and secret shades of shoots with creatures crouched on the verge of all the possibilities this year can serve. Then I can stroll the streets in the city spilling with bar and café life, after hours drinking as everyone takes advantage of the lull in bad weather, cold beers so worth the ache, so what if it’s Tuesday, the time is now. Birds chirping and calling in the early morning light warn me to stop doubting, reminding you that hesitation will leave you standing whilst the grass swallows you up. I just want to get out into it. I want it to last because I know nothing so good ever does.
What is the delicious anxiety that comes with the merry month of May? It sometimes makes me feel like a boy staring through glass as the snow lays smooth and tempting drifts that I just want to sink into. Is it that the tumbling, cascading exuberance of the season is so captivating? The attraction of a cuddly kitten, the tumble of a snowmelt stream, the lull of warm winds swishing their arrival at your cheek – sensual pleasures you want to get inside, to dissolve into, to know it as you know you’re feelings but somehow you’re left on the outside.
The greenwood marriage, the deep pools of dusky glades, the furtive slide of the fox over the fence, the queen of May dancing the hedgerows, the return of the light, the Mythic, the hawthorn petals framing the sky, magic dew on your morning lawn, early to wake and late to bed and every last beanpole to celebrate with white flowers and the dancing bees. This time is true now. I’m standing in the grove awaiting a connection to be restored.