When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
'He was a man who used to notice such things?'
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
'He was a man who used to notice such things?'
The 1st stanza of Thomas Hardy's poem Afterwards.
We spend weeks and weeks looking forward to the true arrival of Spring; then it happens one weekend when our backs are turned, when our minds are on other things. We walk round the garden, round the village, startled and amazed, wondering:
When did those 1st hawthorn leaves unfurl, so soft and green?
Why didn't we notice earlier the smoky haze of bluebells in the oakwood?
How long has the cherry blossom hung there like snow?
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