February, my frozen bud,
my blistered cherry,
my bare branch,
tall old winter wizard man,
crook in your upper spine,
no glint in your glazed eye,
walk out of black branched woods,
your dull grey coat has stiff cold folds,
your mouth firmly closed, never merry,
I’d like to speak of you before you go,
shortest month, twenty eight days,
unless the year has a leap,
breakfast had, I wake from sleep.
No sound to your tread,
you step away from the woods,
over unploughed dark clods,
crows caw cold, circle your head.
When you near your end,
the ground wakes with spring,
bluebells and snowdrops sprout by my garden fence,
and on next door’s green borders, grow daffodils,
and I dare think of summer,
walks on the sea shore, up to the hills.
February, you end winter, release spring,
your bare ballad the sparrows strain to sing.