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What resonates, along with the singing, is something unsung but latent in Howe’s words: “revelations of a world just an inch from our senses, like perfumes you can’t see, perfumes you catch from a May tree.”

Symbolising love and protection, a May tree, the native Hawthorn in full blossom, seems a fitting emblem to memorialise his birth, his life and his passing.

In Haircut, a once healthy plate develops a creeping rash, a wound is torn across a tree in Daily Walk, but in a London park on the morning of 12 May, May Tree emerges unblemished.

I well remember it was with a beating heart that I came to the door of the suburban villa with the May tree in bloom near the gate, and in a minute or so was in the little drawing-room I knew so well.

I shot a glance outside, and on a low branch of the may tree hanging over the water a black-backed gull had apparently killed its mate and was starting to eat it.