Tag Archives: spring

Spring Song

Spring Song

Bird spring song, printed on the air,
pitched too fine and high for attempts at translation.
It is heard in notes not words, that is why.
Is music not speech, signals not conversation.
Still, as a playful test, I attend to one bird,
piping outside my window, in the bush behind the shed,
and try to translate its song into human tongue:
Marga-reet, Marga-reet, join me here, it seems to say.
Your singing lesson is due.
Come, quick as a gull flies after a fish.
I cannot cancel your singing lesson.
Come to me, promptly, speedily.
Converse with me, in my tubular song space.
I never ask for much, please grant my wish.
Rejoice with me in this fresh time
of nest building, chick feeding.
Marga-reet, cherish the choral way we always had.
Summer soon, long winter gone.
Spring brings our kin of feather and wing
to flutter and sing on the wind ways.
Add your notes to our knitted song screen.
Marga-reet, hear my call.
I am impatient to chirp beside your lovely form.
Universal unison, eternal essence,
I sing in the cleansed air.
Our twittering, chattering lines have no conclusion.
Winter’s great grandfather wisdom
buds in the green brain of the spring child,
born to grow to be the youth of summer,
who will mature to muse on wood and water,
clad in autumn’s leafy cloak.

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Anonymous Duck

Anonymous Duck

If you’re a duck you’re out of luck,
you’re never going to be famous,
unless you’re Donald Duck,
but he’s not real,
he’s just the creation of an artist
who worked for the Walt Disney company
in the early twentieth century,
but why would you want to be,
when you have a pond or even a lake,
a canal or a river to swim around in?
To understand the purity of your pleasure
we humans cannot begin.
We can only watch you waddle through the reeds,
rest your webbed feet in the shade
with everything to have and nothing to lack.
I have no time for envy
but I would not mind being an anonymous duck,
to startle the air with the occasional quack.

Today is very May.
England wakes as a green island,
celebrates itself and its very own merry month of May.
Trees lift their leaves on their branches to the sun,
waken from winter to strengthen in its light and warmth.
And I’d like to be, no, not a platypus,
but an anonymous duck,
better than being a pilot or the driver of a truck.
A duck is never short of friends.
They waddle about in company,
not like the lone heron or the stork,
and they have a gift for cartoon comedy
when humans make them talk.

O, God, it was cold in the winter,
but now it is warm in May,
a bird’s chirp seems to say.

March Hare

March Hare

Wish I were a March hare,
out there on the moor,
sniffing spring in the air,
after the winter thaw.

My brain would be alert,
my ears would quiver.
From danger I would spurt,
run down to the river.

I’d listen to the birds,
piping in the grass,
while white clouds roam in herds,
not caring they will pass.

I’d leap through fields of sheep,
free of fox and hawk,
see old mole wake from sleep,
where humans never walk.

My ears and hind legs long,
my nose keen to scent,
the wild where I belong,
there I would make my dent.

Though I’m not a March hare,
out there on the moor,
I still breathe the spring air,
after the winter thaw.

Winter Without, Within

Winter Without, Within

Winter without my walls
made me feel winter within.
So severe the cold, the hollowness
I was alarmed to consider
this desolation sin.
Winter without is natural
but not winter within.
A carol from a choir
stung my eyes, peeled back the skin,
till I felt the thaw begin.
It re-lit my lamp,
cleansed me from winter within.

World must accept winter without,
but not winter within.
Peel back the skin,
let the thaw begin.
Relight the lamp,
to be saved from winter within.

Endure winter without, within.
Do not forget a thing.
You know what comes after.
Spring.

Spring in England

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.

Dandelion Time

Dandelion Time

Let me take time to discuss the dandelion.
From my kitchen window I saw it, just now.
All by itself it grows in my back garden,
on the edge of the lawn I have yet to mow this year,
between the bench, the bins and the fence.
Maybe, I thought, it only sprouted this afternoon.
Certainly, I did not notice it there, yesterday.
Let me consider what it means to me.
Firstly, it is a welcome sign of spring.
If summer is bold, spring is shy,
showing itself in small ways,
like a lone dandelion.
I went outside, to look at it, closely.
Took two photographs of it,
which is unusual for me, odd.
Looked to me in the grass like a yellow sun,
reflected on a green sea from a green sky.
No, not a weed to me, as it would be
to keen gardeners, as they are called, dismissed as such
by them, uprooted and dumped on a waste heap,
for only flowers they plant themselves from seed bags
have beauty in their eyes, but what it is, a wild flower,
like the blue bell, the snow drop.
When the ground is dry and I mow the grass,
the dandelion will remain, like a sun beam in a green glass.
Dandelion is from the French dent-de-lion,
which means lion’s tooth, I read.
How theyDSCN0326 came by that, I do not know.
Does not make me think of a lion or a tooth.
Sunshine, yes, as I have said.

Spring’s Dawn

Spring’s Dawn

Winter’s back’s broken.
What it lacks snapped its spine.
Its frosty claw lost its clutch,
cracked as seed and shoot
makes white bone green.
Not right to say for joy,
to impose human emotion on them,
but the gathering of starlings
in my back garden bush,
it is good to hear them sing.
A low croak from the pond,
but when I looked I saw no frog.
Maybe next week I will see one,
hopping and leaping on the lawn.
The sun rises higher now,
sheds a warmth that thaws.
Safely I say, here’s spring’s dawn.