Wenlock Edge Dark, gnarled trunks of old hawthorns have suddenly become lithe and sinuous, like shadow dancers behind curtains of haze

‘May-time, fair season … blackbirds sing a full song, if there be a scanty beam of day,” sang an unknown Irish poet in what we now call the dark ages. Today, the light through the trees is as green and sour as a gooseberry. A high canopy of ash, latest to leaf and still sparse, lets sunshine and showers through to lower levels a-swamp with leaf; each one a crucible in the alchemy turning light into life.

Dark, gnarled trunks of old hawthorns have suddenly become lithe and sinuous, like shadow dancers behind curtains of hazel, on carpets of dog’s mercury, in chambers full of birdsong. When the sun’s out, the birds drawl softly in the heady air; when it rains they hold their breaths; when the rain stops and the labyrinths are rinsed clean, they release their voices, cool and sweet.

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Source: Guardian Environment