The Green - To The Trees Edition #62

May is so welcome. All the greens have arrived in a cascade of hues too plentiful to discern individually. The up-coiling hedgerows writhe with the colour, a plethora of verdant shades that appears to churn over and over before my very eyes, moving out of and into itself like a waist-deep den of serpents, caught in a motion so continuous that one cannot tell which head belongs to which tail.

The green embodies a multitude of dimensions in this context. It is not simply a colour to be seen, but a green that is felt upon the skin, tipped messily into eyes, ladled into ears and poured up the nose. It is a green so green you can taste it – a green that seems to cross the boundary from the ‘external’ observed reality, climbing into one’s being and crafting a green dream within. It is a green of such immediacy and abundance that one could easily assume their own flesh and blood should also have turned green.

Green’s arrival, reckless and right on time, leaves behind a drifting white wake. The eruption brims with fertility as spring gallops across hedge tops, horse-powered, all frothing at the mouth with eyes dilated and lustful. The tumbling sprays of hawthorn – some flowers the size of pennies – leap from the rows like countless tumbling waterfalls, and in numbers noticeably greater than last year. Their scent, a certain kind of stench, twinges my nose as I push my face in for a full blow. It is an ancient aroma, and an especially acquired taste.

The cow parsley is being poured into the paths, rising to my chest in places. They seemingly sprang up overnight – stems rushing upwards like a system of tiny tributaries, drawn up by fire and pushed forth by water – the sacred marriage defined.

Ash is masting. Many of the local trees upon Stone Down are bearing huge bunches of keys, made all the more ominous by the ash tree’s branches, still bare of foliage well into May. Any native tree now without leaves, is either dead or else is an ash. Eager to flower but always late to leaf, ash is the last native tree to join the grand order of spring.

If my eye has it right, the oaks are also showing a fair crop of tiny developing acorns, held out like bug eyes on pedunculate stalks, awaiting their sunshine. Given recent fine weather, the lindens are getting a head start on their perfect flowers and will almost certainly blossom before the Solstice, while the elder is also showing early flowers.

Closer to home, the town trees have all bounded into action. There are some particularly interesting specimens on street corners and protruding over fences. A manna ash stands in full bloom. A substantial holly is dropping white-petalled confetti on the pavement beneath. And there is a heavily pruned ash that was probably once part of a hedge. At the end of my road, two pines are illuminated in the most pleasant way at sunset.

In the Abbey, the old holm oak is having an autumn and spring at the same time, dropping some of its leaves while also producing new growth and an abundance of flowers. The same thing is happening to the holm oak in the Bishop’s Palace gardens. The copper beeches are splendid, so deeply coloured this year, they sport a very special kind of green that is all their own, hidden from view until one walks beneath the crown and looks up.

Copper Beech – Bulwarks Lane

May is poured in, filled to overflowing and then poured still further, gushing green rivers along the laneside and lapping at one’s ankles beside the narrow paths. At this stage of the season, we are unsure whether we stand at spring’s height or at summer’s beginning. May’s propulsion — the fire of Beltane, such a force of nature, will now carry us all the way to mid summer. We are turned over upon its eager white waters, little green people, in little green boats, bobbing merrily in the bright white wake, of this bright green stream, on a heading for the Summer’s Solstice.

MW – 12/5/25