Spring

CONVERSATION OF POEMS

John Looker

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!”

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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.

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And look at you, little lass,

as you go skipping among the white petals

in your blue coat with the pink buttons,

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now turning to beam at us

with your big dazzling smile – you, at the portals

of spring, all birdsong and blossom.

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Erika

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

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You lie there, little dog,

thankful for the sun,

your white-booted paws,

elegantly folded one on the other.

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All around winter gives way

to purple crocus

boldly nuzzling up

through yesterday’s woebegone remains.

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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.

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Your gaze is hopeful

as you and she, saying adieu to winter,

welcome one more spring.

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