The Turning

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.