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Poem
The year has finally yawned and turned       
Upon a half-revealed shoulder.
A vibrancy, intrinsic to a reemerging 
Enforcement of the strengthening light, 
In its deliberate and unconcerned      
Way, heightening, with increasing vigour,        
Each new days new made morn.                 
From out of the kitchen window I spot a 
Cautious speckled-breasted Thrush busily 
Occupying itself with the practicalities of
My soaked-through and unkempt lawn;                              
Hopefully a chance of an unearthed grub 
Or careless worm.                               
What was once submerged in a slumbering
Drowse                                        
Of seasonal disrepair                        
Now begins to gently stir ...when, of 
course, favourable conditions thus allows.                      
The first scrambling moil of enchanting
White Snowdrops sprouting, mostly 
Unnoticed, through the dark leaf molds 
Blackened surrounds.                         
For one who looks: all the subtle     
Indicators in shy abundance everywhere.     


Soon the sparse and tentative spills         
Of bulbous Crocus, faint Primrose, 
Vigorous Forget-me-nots. A crowding of                   
Lavishly painted Daffodils;                     
They appear, uninvited, on our neatly
Tendered roundabouts and embankments, 
Invading unruly verges alongside       
Narrow roads flanked by the emptied 
Whitethorn hedges; a safe haven in the
Returning Springtime allowing all manner 
Of varied flora and fauna to thrive.                                      
This gradual awakening. Firstly in the
Valleys; creeping ever upwards; unto 
Steep Vales and distant hills:-               
Here a thawing of the stiffened and 
Spiky grasses;                               
Encouragement for an intermingling 
Entanglement of Sorrel, Tormentil and
Butterwort to propagate between
Yellow-spotted lichen rock.         
Further onward yet, steadily climbing --
Then the sweeping moorland displaying
Her quilted and patchworked masses        
Of purple Heather;
A windswept moors desolate beauty,
Its perfect isolation, surpasses                                   
All I have ever known...almost as if   
Grinding time haltingly pauses and begs 
To dally like slow and patient shadows
Falling over the fingerless face of a 
Sun-dials chimeless clock.                   



Yes, the year has now reluctantly awoken.      
Only yesterday, out of the unattended 
Confines of the marbled fields, I heard 
Spoken                                          
The introductory contentions of the 
"Golden-Beaked Herald";  thence 
Proceeding to enthusiastically warble, 
With much determined pomp and brazen
Audacity,                       
Above those tilted slabs when perched
Upon the barest branch of the graveyards
Old Cherry tree;                                
It were as if he was compelled to show,
Feathered throat widely open,                   
His complete unruffled soul before the 
Indifference of the whole ignorant World!      
That ageless song...nearly, I wager, as
Ancient as those retreating, elusive notes 
From the pipes of immortal Pan.                                                     
Whilst, summoned from within that 
Ouzel's sonorous melody, which sweetly
Unfurled         
Over a crisp, hammering stillness, it 
Seemed to be, in that short duration,
He desperately hurled                                          
His fullest repertoire...for the 
Consideration of one unworthy man.
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