I can forgive the weather almost anything in May. The rain is soft and refreshing, the mist pearlescent and full of secrets and promise, and the sunshine remakes the world.
Every May I am delighted each day by the changes. Poppies are out in the garden, furled and damp like wet butterflies but ready to open in the next warm day. Three swallows circled in the sky this evening, catching insects high above the valley. Each morning new trees are in green leaf. There is a lushness to May which has become tired and dusty by the end of June.
I would rather be out, breathing in the freshness of a wet day in May, than baking in full sunshine at any other time of the year.
Every day is precious. There are only 16 of them left this year.