I find it impossible to see the signs of spring and not to want to take photographs and write poetry.
But springtime has been written about so often by poets that it’s become almost a cliché in its own right. Anyway, whether it’s due to global warming, geographical location or faulty memory, the seasons just don’t seem to be as clear cut as they used to be.
Realising that I am bound to fail to write anything close to “what oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d”, I’ll settle for a few new photos and some old poems. The first was written after a trip to Scotland in March, the other pieces were written in Spain.
Spring
March skies leaked
milky sunshine; now it lies
in primrose pools on the embankment.From ivydark, zodiac
periwinkles blink, then stare
where caterpillar catkins dance
with bumble bees. Under the trees
a crocus campfire kindles.Gold permeates the air: the blackbirds
have been drinking
daffodils.
Outside open windows
blossom clouds the orchard;
my dustpan is full of pollen.
spring cleaning
Under a clear sky, clouds
of apple blossom haze
the orchard; the scent drifts
through open windows
and birdsong, not the radio,
accompanies my chores.
Today, inside and out,
the dust is yellow.
don't confuse the narrator 