( or Hope Denied)
The saffron centred crocus shone against the dark earth,
petals gently unfolding inviting the invasion of light
and insects tending their pollen, enabling production
of tapestry in grass; and secretly new bulbs grow ready
to bring joy and luminescence to the troubled world.
Floating on the breeze bees hover, seeking the sweet
peppery smell of defiant daffodils, with urgent spears
they break open frozen soil and as buds burst, golden
flowers wave in the wind, bending, heralding the good
news of heads heavy with the promise of fruitfulness.
The weeping willow hangs its head, as if shamed, down
on the scattering of purple, white, yellow and orange
that look on the swaying slender branches with awe til
the tiny buds of fresh green begin the task of creation,
in a quickening garden, a sweet shadowed lovers bower.
So soft, so gentle are the woodlands growing and where
green buds burst below carpets of blue and white, as the
campanula carpet battles for ground with the humble garlic,
and mother’s violets cover the banks, peeping at the sun
which is slowly dappled and darkened under the canopy.
Small birds flit and fuss as they collect damp green moss,
and the woodpeckers knock out their staccato rhythm,
or cackle with laughter as they fly through the branches
that wave and greet the coming Spring, jubilantly they
clutch the new nests and cheer on the coupling hawks.
Suddenly life looks good and growing would be better,
and fulsomely lovely were it not for the bitter twist, of
wars and weather which wrest from the world the many
majestic splendours of its blossoming and blooming,
killing indiscriminately the proliferating gloriousness.
So, rest in bower, beloved, and feel the swift rising of
the sap in the gloom of a grey winter’s dying throes,
feel the gratitude of the butterfly winged flight, holding
the heat of Spring’s happiness in your heart against-
the cold of the hungry engine of division and hatred.