Spring in England
In the higher branches of the evergreens,
three magpies squabble with a crow.
Why and what it means only they would know.
A pigeon disturbs them,
flutters down, lands nearby.
Not bound to stay, they flap away,
below the blue spring sky.
A few starlings nod their heads,
pace this way and that,
inspect the lawn for worms,
a trail of slug or snail,
watched from behind reeds
by a crouching cat,
on this bright, contented day.
Even better will come, I can safely say.
Though that on the news is real,
what I see in my garden
is spring in England as it has always been,
birds alert, perched, in flight,
in worlds of blue and green.
And I know, when waked by love,
be it in winter or in spring,
the heart is a tender thing,
for it is then exposed, vulnerable.
The mind concludes
that before roused by love,
the heart merely functions,
is barely attended to,
but when the mind is conscious of love,
the heart is stirred, like a bird,
breathes, pines to sing.
It is then when the heart is a tender thing.