This painting is of the Avenue at Trinity backs as Spring hits. Confess to egging the blue slightly in Cambridge’s direction. It fits the sonnet exactly. The precious metal green, the gold green of Spring oak, I’ve not painted. Each painting is merely a thank-you to God.

SPRING SPRUNG

Here, now, the Spring sprung glory of God’s year,
Reverse explosion from the bombing bud,
Each leaf exhaling new born oxygen,
Unpackaged to fragility in air.
Trees turn to green from amber, blossom white,
To go another ring unseen in trunk
From roots frenetic to the highest bough.
The precious metal green of spreading oak
Sits by the black knob ash, all fiddly now
Before the mass of leaves takes over May.
Green see acoming, every tree in specks.
What is the point of growing? Every point
Now points to God, to grow to God. You feed
For faith true, living, lime and it is so.