high bare branches
knocking in the wind
massing in the woods
snowdrops like sheep
distant on hillsides
the eye of the daffodil
waiting to open onto the world
Bluebells push through the skin of the earth,
stems as frail as the legs of newborn calves.
Mounds of wild garlic leaves
cover the ground beneath the trees,
climb the steps through the woods
like giant green spiders.
The passing whirr of a bee.
Blackbird song at evening.
This is a child’s time:
dandelions are fat suns,
seed heads full moons,
daisies are fried eggs in miniature
and cherry blossom candy floss.
In all its glory, the copper beech
expects to be taken seriously.
A heat-haze of bluebells.
The electric yellow of the rape field
wires your brain to the mains, dimming
the light from the flowers on the gorse.
Swallows are here.
Only the ash stands bare.
Swallows skim wind-rippled wheat fields.
Dust lies like velvet, thick on the lanes.
The lights have gone out on the gorse
and the blossom from the cherry has been swept
from the earth, as though it had not existed.
But honeysuckle is sweet
in hedgerows as full as wedding chaplets
and, waving regally in its furs,
the ash is robed at last.
We know the world is working.