May has to be the best month, although my natural inclination is to dismiss it in favour of January, just because the rebel in me refuses to follow the cultural crowd!
But you can’t escape the fact that everyone likes May because it is . . . well, so likeable.
The spring has most definitely sprung, and the erect and proud maypole has been worshipped by the fair youths and maidens of the village and is now left alone to become tumescent.
Bluebells are everywhere on the south facing slopes, like scribbles of electric haze. They are quite desperate to breed before the woodland canopy gets too thick and dark. Their pollinators obviously home in on the colour blue, though the bluebells also have a rich scent that can bring in the insects that quiver on the wind and that rely on picking up smells.
Insects that are aroun at this time of year must be sensitive to the blue end of the light spectrum. The other flowers in the woods are forget-me-nots, pale and clear, like the eyes of a sweetheart.
The earth is warm when I lie on it to ease my back pain. There is a wicked sense oof mischief, even at my ripe age, to roll on it, like a dog, to cover myself in pollen and nectar and the crushed juices of the dandelion stalk.
You don’t need eyes for this sensual pleasure. Touch and smell everything. Taste the earth like a lover. This planet can only be ours if we caress it with our bodies, not if we penetrate it with concrete and attack it with machinery.
Hear the scurrying of insects and the singing of birds and the rising sap in the birch trees. Listen to this music respectfully – it is the earth’s love song to you.