A Touch of Seasonjing

Our Island's disparate seasons guide the pen, of authors, poets, artists, common men. When bitter, snow-flecked winds and frosted boughs, draw us to our hearths and thoughts arouse; of springtime promise, nature's quickening pace, the lengthened day, the gravid swollen ewe that seeks some sheltered space. Regard how soon, in spring, our dark-tinged winter thoughts recede, the city's black wet slush is washed away, weak April sun caresses ripening seed. In rural fields and woods, now clothed in verdant green, new shoots, new life, bursts forth from winters annual, tight-held quarantine. Soft trembling new-born lamb gulps in the sounds and smells, then seeks the teat; before, from milk flecked lips there comes his first weak ovine bleat Urban streets as well, reflect the season's change, and sun-warmed brick gives ease to stiffened limbs. While city dwellers sit at open doors, in floral dress and hats with turned up brims. A jaunty step replaces hooded slouch as townsfolk sniff the air, and shun the comfort of their soft warm fireside couch, then venture out, bare-sleeved to test, that nature hasn't pulled her cruel, and not infrequent jest; that lures us out, then drives us in again, from blackened skies, a biting wind, and Englands never distant rain.