As
the wind howls in the chimney and the remnants of the recent snow linger on the
Shropshire Hills (‘waiting for a bit more’, my old dad would have said) my
thoughts turn to spring! The snowdrops are already out under the garden hedge
and the daffodil and crocus spikes are peeking through promising much needed
colour just when I need it.
 |
| Crystal Catkins? |
Was That the End of Winter?
Was that the cold
north wind which whines
And creeps through
every crevice small?
Raw, promised
flurries twist and twirl
Encasing, choking,
shrouding all.
Was that a
multitude of crows
Which sat within
the iron oak
And ‘cawed’ away
the greyest days
Beneath a sunless,
clouded cloak?
Was that a single
snowdrop brave
Which peeked
amongst the spiky green?
Her virgin-white
dress edged so neat
An omen that the
worst has been.
Was that a
red-breast bird I heard
As solar rays
thrust dark aside?
A song so true,
the spirits lift
And greet the
breaking dawn with pride.
Was that a veil of
catkin tails
Cascading over
hazel bare
Which hide the
tiny foetal nuts
And toss the
pollen in the air?
Was that a clump
of daffodils
Whose shoots are strong
as swords of steel
Come peeping
through the frozen earth
A golden trumpet
to reveal?
Was that a bud
upon the branch
Promising new life
will be born?
A waiting game of
light and warmth
To bring forth
rose, fresh leaf and thorn.
Was that a crystal
icicle
Which onto Winter
aimed to cling
Releasing all her
coldest hours
Towards the tender
days of Spring!
Thanks for your time.
The Leebotwood Poet xx
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