Returning from school our drive was lined with the cherry tree soldiers that burst into soft-petalled patrol each May.
In playgrounds, the young children dance a dance of pagan roots as they twirl about their colourful pole, skirts swirling and muddy knees twirling to the rhythm of another year.
Our nation seems a little confused with its identity as it struggles to amalgamate such a kaleidoscope of religions, and cultures.
A local school has thirty-two languages. Respect must surely be the way forward.
Meanwhile, the Maypole returns. It has seen many changes in the playgrounds of England since its beginning, and will no doubt see many more.
But with tolerance and mutual respect, the ribbons of confusion may weave to form a wonderful new pattern for the next generation.