The Trees

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

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.


Philip Larkin was born a hundred years ago today. Every year I'm affected greatly by the combined beauty and sadness of the trees coming into leaf. It took this great poet to put it into words. Their greenness is a kind of grief. 
 
I took Ollie dog into Forest Vets in Epping to collect her tablets. She was interested in the charming scarecrow vet and poorly dog.  Afterwards we had a walk in the forest.