Oh...Yes. Where was I...? In a field. Obviously.

3rd June 1967

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

The faint reclothing of midair
That thickens into restless towers
Creates a different word from ours
Up to the edge of winter. There

A summer is a separate thing
That makes no reference to the past,
And may not even be the last,
And mocks our lack of blossoming,


Philip Larkin - Letters to Monica

Green...Green...Green