The laden boughs of apple sing
a song of sweetness, such is spring,
in scented whiles i sit rejoiced
and marvel at the moments touch.
As golden dots the dandelions
in careless incandescence grow
to offer wild ambrosia
and fuel the buzz of tiny souls.
As nettles rise to claim their pitch
and build the threat of future sting
the thickened dock avails itself,
the boon of herbal medicine.
With ears alive to Merlins App
I clock the sounds and list the roll :
a tapestry of tweets and caws
unwritten by composers scores.
Eurasian blackbird, dunnock, wren
goldcrest, chaffinch, blue tit, hen
chiffchaff, jackdaw, pheasant, crow,
an orchestra with space to grow.
Soon the swift and swallow calls
upon the wing of arcing flight,
and soon the cuckoo call returns
in warming air and lengthened light.
Soon the swollen buds of ash
will fill the open canopy
and hope their vigour can outlast
the threat of fungal entropy.
Our pond alive with teeming pulse
as newts and tadpoles, one by one
transform before our very eyes
becoming all they hope to be.
On berry stems full growth appears,
beginnings of true succulence
whilst jasmine rambles thru the hedge,
the rhubarb sits and smiles.
On days as this with life affirmed
a guilt is felt for life at ease,
forget-me-nots in blueness thrive
and mock my foolish thoughts.
The fern unfurls in Aprils touch
as hedges fill in thickened growth
and ladysmock in careless dress
awaits the coming May.
The brutish burdock occupies
the margins edge in worlds unkempt,
whilst lilac buds in swollen guise
prepare themselves for moons ahead.
Lunaria in purpled white
attract the lust of butterflies
whose lacy wings in fluttered flight
define the joys of life itself.
Fecundity displays its thrall
and fills with world with ardent thrust,
its fragrancy a payment down
to debts dishonoured by mistrust.
As everwas the circle turns
true nature lives within itself,
reciprocal munificence
a balance found in harmony.
So thus i wait in Aprils yearn
to hear the cuckoos call return
to listen out and listen well,
returning echoes stories tell…
A year ago or almost such
I waited long and worried much
and in my worry failed to trust
that sacred ways enfold as must.
Ten thousand miles of back and forth
three seasons south, one season north
on wings which taste saharan dust
migration moves in nature’s thrust.
On solo wings they fly at night
set course upon a pilgrims plight
and somehow know their lifes direction,
mystic natures own perfection.
True cuculus please know i wait
with bated breath to hear thy fate,
to hear thine call from woodlands yonder
knowing i rejoice thy wonder.
Leave a Reply