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,
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 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 –
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.