The Season
Trees still denuded but burgeoning with buds
Will soon be bedecked in the brightest of duds.
Small birds renew flitting amid bursts of bright song
While crocus heads from the soil shyly push up along.
Freshness and newness is what they declare
When brightness and music do fill the air
Hope and joy in simplicity blend
With which no other season can ever contend.
Summer's profusion ,autumn's decay,
Winter bleak, brightened but by Christmas Day
Yet spring with its simple and artless style
Young and old alike doth beguile.
Vivaldi's Four Seasons, a work of great art,
Depicts the cycle with humour and heart
But the princess of seasons stands merrily played
To leave the rest in its shy little shade.
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