Every year when May arrives, I realize that it's my favourite month. The same thing happens in July and October. My senses forget the other seasons, and refuse to believe that anything but the present could be so beautiful and wholly perfect. Pollens and nectar of blossoms are in every breath of air. Certain unseen but familiar-singing birds that have been missing are back. Trees are opening up into colours and shapes we'd all forgotten. There is a core of coolness in the air but the sun has brawn again. At lunch, lying on a verge under a tree, the brightness lit my closed lids a deep red and when I opened my eyes, everything was purple and mysterious, the colour of a veiled world warming back into life. May has a wind that comes into the lungs like a draught of vintage. It gives me a longing for sensuousness and depth to equal the petals of spring in their thick-folded softness. All creatures are thirsty for new life, I suppose, and want to bloom somehow. I do not mind being mate-less. But the workings of the earth and sun make me want romance as much as any flower or row of bleeding hearts.
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