I want to speak the Language of May. To round May up, bundle it in a glass case and tell you what I see, what I smell, what I taste. But I fail and fail again. Intoxicated by its very presence, like some old sop who drinks and drinks until she falls off her chair muttering banalities and obscenities and never making sense. May carries on hurtling towards June and will be gone before I can capture it. I wander the lanes and crave more and more; I could swallow everything I see and still not be slaked. A drunken thug escorted from the auditorium whilst this mystery play in several acts reveals itself layer by layer. But in that revealing, fecundity, not nakedness appears.
I want to speak the language of May, of cowslips faithful to the hope of the day of champagne verges, frothy, inviting, alluring. May, promiscuous and promising, wanton, passionate, frolicking infidelity. May is a permissive path to a permitted life. I may, I may not. Precursor to full sun, open blossom, ripe buds, glorious hope, opulent indulgence. Try to paint fresh green grass or bluebell woods and nausea pervades. It refuses to be painted, filmed or even embroidered. It’s a live performance, theatre in the round. No replays, no capturing the moment. This is the moment. May is doing its thing, it is the main act, it will not be outdone by any other art form, written or otherwise. May owns the stage.
I want to speak the language of May, but now I’m anxious, how many more Mays will there be. Will the cowslips ever be this yellow, the bluebells so blue? I camp out in the garden just to hear the dawn chorus in case, just in case. Surely, I could bottle just a few jars of May to see me through the winter drag?
