Spring
I loved on Saturdays in March, at dawn
(back then, each day was Saturday) to root
in pond and hedgerow. Light was pale, dilute,
and buds clung tight and hard around the thorn.
This season, with the world so freshly born,
enchanted me. Each flicking, wedge-faced newt,
sedge on his face, unconscionably cute,
each ink-black eye from thousands in the spawn,
each clear cold pool, each acid-green young shoot,
each minnow which acknowledged my pursuit
and twitched my hand-held line (no hope of rod!),
each copse, so self-contained and absolute,
with nascent blossom dusted, bluebell-shod,
appeared to me a pledge of life from God.
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