The May

The wind picked up as I walked towards the car, showering pale pink petals all over the pavement. They collected in drifts in the cracks in the paving stones and fell with the camber on grated drains. They piled up like the snow at sunset on windscreen wipers, sticking to hot metal bonnets.

The day was grey and unpromising, but the dropping cherry tree seemed not to realise. Or perhaps it knew that pink really looks most striking against grey: concrete, tarmac, bent metal street signs.

Later, walking to see a new born baby, again the frivolous flurry - seemingly for this tiny girl, all in pink herself.

My mother always calls this blossom The May, whatever its hue or provenance, giving it significance and portent beyond mere visual frivolity. It is as if the natural world were celebrating or heralding the arrival of the golden season with handfuls of confetti, falling all around. Reminding us that it may rain today, but we shall have sun tomorrow. Summer is on it's way.