It is May, the most beautiful of all months. Up here in the Yorkshire Dales it comes late, nevertheless

'Nothing is so beautiful as Spring
When weeds in wheels shoot long and lovely and lush' ( G M Hopkins)

The woods are full of wild garlic. Here is a poem about my seeing it spill out on to a forgotten road:

Spillage

Wild garlic once
poured down a cart track and under a gate
and on to a lane till wheels stopped it.

A slew of white flowers. From high up
like sheep being herded through a gap
lower down like fields of coral.

When the old bridge broke
traffic was siphoned on to the highway
no one came here again.

Grass grew in the middle
seeds swelled, became bulbs, over years
the spread went mad.

It only needed time. This May
bees blunder roly-poly through the blossoms, woods
are sheeted blue. An entire lane
lies deep in the fallen snow of the garlic.

Ann Pilling, 2018