Coming ...

I don't know all of this poem by Philip Larkin off by heart, but today, as tends to happen, I found myself repeating a fragment of it as I spotted these catkins. Once I'd noticed them, I could see other trees with their delicate little yellow tails swinging in the damp wind ...

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
Laurel-surrounded
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon —
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.