The trees are coming into leafLike 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,
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.
'The Trees'Poem by my favourite poet, Philip Larkin
Photograph by my favourite photographer, James Allen!
(James celebrates his birthday this month)
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