Heart of Spring
Late and late, here and now golden glimmers spring
upon the whisper rippled river, who begs, 'let me sleep',
among the stones;
late and now. Across the bridge,
in the park, couples stretch to take their ease
among the bawdry budding flowers,
the scattered showers, of purple, white and yellow Crocus,
and the melting Snowdrops.
Here and now.
The violent songs take wing from every new-build nest,
to fool our ear, to trick our sense,
unaware of the worms and eggs that every note defends.
Now while late, the smokers gaggle at the pub' house door,
expend upon their passion louder than before without
the fizzing wet car tyred roar, and the hush of night to chide them.
Here and here. Now guided by our retina to longer sight
by clearing air, and everywhere the colour lifting,
dotting, brighter than each yesterday.
Here and now,
and ten feet on, beyond the fringe of the wood
three twisting elms contort balletic from a common root.
Beneath the sister's entwined arms, Bluebells mass
upon the bank, waiting with wild Thyme and the Eglantine
for the frost-less nights to come.
Here and here, the fallow passes
greening into growth. Yellow winter, slow departed
from the muddled earth of pathways,
slips away to the single grained white, brown and grey.
Here and now, one sees the trees for the opened woods.
The etching, flexing, branches on the spooling sky
and the slender warty frames. Naked, more than leafless,
no glade nor ley delights the mind to fancy,
or invites the weary to rest in shade.
Late and late, here and now.