This mature willow in Queen's Park showing the hazy green of the new leaves of Spring. 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 full-grown thickness every May
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
(Philip Larkin)
