I watch the rush of our trees, their impatience, their hurry ignoring seasons running full pelt at growth and fast forwarding their budding, their fruit bearing, in good time to take advantage of the recent resurgence in the 5-a-day.
I watch and blink.
Reading Rainer Maria Rilke, from 'Letters to a young poet.' Our tree "does not hurry the flow of its sap and stands at ease in the spring gales without fearing that no summer may follow...."