Play at Fairfield Road was interrupted briefly yesterday by a freak snow storm –
Actually, no – it’s a heavy shower of catkins. I am uncertain as to which species produced them, though in an ideal world I suppose it would be the Cricket Bat Willow (Salix alba ‘Caerulea’).
What it is not, I think, is a cherry tree, as featured in the following poem by A.E. Housman, but I think the same principle applies. It occurs to me that I am at the opposite end of the scale to the speaker (almost fifty years gone rather than fifty years to come), but all the more reason to take heed.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Or, in my case, to the cricket ground.