Just back from 2 days in a wonderful shepherd's hut by a lake on the Dorset/Somerset border, of which more anon.
Delighted that several people have sent in pieces of writing on 'May', so here they are, below. Thank you all – what a treat. (I've copied and pasted from several different types of documents, so if there are font discrepancies, that's why.)
Driving across the Levels to Godney in May is like being at nature’s wedding day. Narrow lanes, a froth of white and yellow, cow parsley and charlock that hem the rhynes. Pollard willows sprout new withies and stretching away, a green sea of rippling grass spattered with buttercup gold. Overarching hawthorn scatters confetti as you pass under branch after branch. After endless winter floods that turned Somerset into a vast lake, the joy is magnified. Life and the swallows have indeed returned. Only three miles away, but by the time I got there I felt positively bridal.
|Rachael's Mayday view of Glastonbury Tor|
May I? Pretty please? – Oh yes I may!
Sweet May lays at my feet another day.
My days are done and cannot be undone,
but now another May day has begun!
May first is past:
Though filled with flowers and sealed with sun
It could not last.
May two - gone too,
Though every hour to its full length was spun.
And now May three
Is courteously bending at her knee,
Is greeting me
With yet another wealth of simple treasure;
Oh may I, may I, may I
Have the pleasure?
100 words for May in the South West
Dancing at dawn, in the mist on Haytor, the magic of May begins. In its wake the bursting of the buds, the leaf sheaths blown and playing with blossom in a storm. Cloud bursts alternate with billowing clouds and warm sunshine confusion – coat on, gloves off, scarf on, umbrella up, down! The ever-changing skies galloping across the sea, or Dartmoor, move me. I am elated, inspired and pulled out of my winter lethargy, full of optimism for the season. Swept along through Devon lanes and beaches, I fall in love with another blessed Spring.
Dilys Morgan Scott
I walk the headland as far from sea as you can be. Horizontals broaden the land: a daub of rape stippled by bristling wind, a froth of chervil and now the scent of May. Bury your nose in blossom and scent is elusive; step back and the air is richly mellow, not sweet or fragrant but so beguiling it dumbs the road beyond. And all around the blue vastness above reaching full stretch, lifting the larks. Now they’re buried up high, in sky overgrown, dabbling clouds; and one unwinds, plummets, then skims the earth to land with upturned flourish.
May, Hyde Park
The patient grass begins to grow, the feet to crush, machinery to shave and scalp. Birds sing, bursting tiny throats to overcome the traffic noise. Brave leaves break out on plane trees, ready for the rain of particulates. Dogs strain and bark, wishing again for freedom from lead and collar. And then their owners, discussing where to go for lunch.