‘When I die I shall go to May,’
wrote Monty Don in the beautiful Ivington Diaries, ‘it will be green. Not
environmentally correct green, for things will just be, without measurement or
judgement, but actually the colour green in all its shining faces.
The oilseed rape fields, overbright sulphuric
yellow, their heady oppressive pollen suffocating the fields of
Leicestershire and Rutland, are lost to me. I too, rejoice in the green, the
fluidity, the mesmerising soft promise, ‘the shifting, growing hymn of light and colour and leaf.’
And here, with my love, is my
tribute to May.
.jpg)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment