Friston Forest

Winter branches creak over wild primrose,

new-blossomed from the land.

The pond, full-green, sits tranquil.

Daffodils burst in clumps,

Ivy-decked ground softly crunches,

Twigs snap.

Dens stand here, logs stacked against

tumbled branches –

a village of stick-stacked huts,

Pandemic won’t stop play.

Children’s laughter echoes through spindly trees –

acacia, birch and oak and all their sapling babes.

A well-hung swing glides over moss and fern,

and stump of tree and root.

We picnic round a ring of logs,

surrounding an imaginary fire.

Rooks, communing, caw and swoop

around their tall-branched rookeries.

Blackbird and magpie look on.

Here and there: traces of rabbits,

in earth-uprooted, scat-scattered.

Down we trek through slopes littered

with Autumn’s chestnut leaves,

still crisp underfoot.

Whip-thin, spindly branches, tipped with buds,

wait to sprout.

Just a day since the Equinox

balanced out the days –

and nights,

and already Spring is

trumpeting in its season;

proclaiming its dominion

over barren earth

and the dregs of decay.

Life trembles here, on

the edge of becoming.

The forest, sleepy from its

frigid slumber –

emerges tentatively,

listening to the call

of Persephone’s returning song:

Come blossom, bloom and bud;

Come flower, frond and fern!

Awaken and delight

for the world is turning

and your time is nigh.

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