Spring - To The Trees Edition #73

As I begin this newsletter, the new moon hangs a crescent in the sky, the sun and earth align to balance light and dark, and all over the world, for one day only, the fiery ball rises directly east, and sets directly west.

Even after all the waiting and anticipation, it still surprises me that the earth springs and all that was stripped bare still bears life. Despite my knowing bones, I am still caught off guard by the fountains of beauty that burst forth from the cracks in the dirt. I find myself so consumed by this season, so keen to take in all its aspects, to notice every creeping branch and every leaping song. But not one curious pair of eyes is enough to take it all in, two open ears not capable of recording it, and a single mind unable to process spring in its fullness.

The month as a whole has been changeable, it’s what I expect from March; in one moment one cheek may be bathed in the light of spring’s lofty golden pavilions, the other slapped by a cold gust. Such is the shyness of the approaching heat at this early stage of the season, that she is easily chased away by the drifting tail of winter.

With the equinox came great news! Word travelled that the Holy Thorn of Wearyall has sprung back into life after a somewhat difficult summer of drought. Having not set forth flowers as expected in the winter, we thought she may be a goner. But the young thorn’s modest crown of twiggy branches has come bearing leaf and flower right in time for Easter, and shows hope of more verdancy as the season progresses. I will be keeping a close eye and I hope this year we can prepare the tree better for drought. I will certainly be taking up some litres of water through the hot season, whether drought is present or not.

On the theme of thorn, the splendid St John’s specimen is currently in full bloom, not wasting an inch of branch; she is laden with flowers and currently stands at peak inflorescence. She has some pink petals too and strange red marks on some of her leaves, which I haven’t noticed before, like they have been splattered with blood.

Veteran Oak – Wales

This month, I have been able to get out and about in the sunshine a couple of times. An unwordable relief overcame me as I sank into the unstepped grass for the first time in months, to play songs that have sat unsung for a winter, to the birds who sing songs that have also lain dormant. I trail on like the wren as I gaze across the field to see the familiar path of pigeons arcing through the sky toward the poplars, I recognise it from last year and, for a moment, distant moments are brought into cohesion.

As the magpies cackle and gather in the ash above and the buzzards circle slowly over the nearest combe, I hold still to observe the long-tailed tits twitch and flit through the hedges picking out spring from each bud with repetitive peeps. These rhythms and intricacies draw me in and stand in stark contrast to the brutal simplicity of winter. Along with the pigeons’ gentle coo, they draw my mind to a still.

As this newsletter nears completion, I stand in the garden, with a clear sky lit with a perfect fulling moon. Her presence acts as a clock of the month and for six years now I have engaged her patterns as a muse, coaxing wordage from my being with every new cycle. An honour it is to serve.

As I watched the lone clouds pass over I was delighted to catch my first glimpse of the twitchy flight of the bats, ducking and diving in the dusk on the hunt for early insects. So silent is their being, and so gentle their departure into hibernation that it is only their return which reminds me they were gone. Like a creature of dreams, a blurred presence that drifts into and out of the mists of memory.

Until next time, we walk To The Trees

3/4/2026

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