CONVERSATION OF POEMS
Herald of Spring
No, not the cuckoo although, yes,
we fancied we heard one just now, over the field.
Snowdrops maybe? Plucky little plants, they unfold
their immaculate gowns with a “hey look at us!”
Everywhere we see the colours of winter:
flint church, moss on the gravestones, the yews,
and the drift of spent leaves – all so subdued
until these starbursts make us stop in wonder.
And look at you, little lass,
as you go skipping among the white petals
in your blue coat with the pink buttons,
now turning to beam at us
with your big dazzling smile – you, at the portals
of spring, all birdsong and blossom.
It’s early for the cuckoo but the air is full of birdsong
Notes, invisible, caught in the bare branches of a tree,
singing spring spring spring
You lie there, little dog,
thankful for the sun,
your white-booted paws,
elegantly folded one on the other.
All around winter gives way
to purple crocus
boldly nuzzling up
through yesterday’s woebegone remains.
You lift your muzzle, turning white,
to greet the lady with her cane,
she too in her autumn years,
as she bends down to pluck a flower.
Your gaze is hopeful
as you and she, saying adieu to winter,
welcome one more spring.