The Running of Spring
In just two weeks, the greening ghyll
Hides naked shame in mystery,
The bluebells darken, the chestnut shakes its spears,
the butterburr is over and bees visit the comfrey.
In just two weeks, the screaming swifts
claim the skies, blackcaps chatter
in the leaves and the cuckoo returns
slack-winged to the windy walls.
In just two weeks, the red faced blots
Of soot, that raced across the pond
And piped insistently for roots,
Have grown to police their conscientious plots.
In just two weeks, the sulphur grey wagtail
brings no more flies to the demanding moss,
But shows his shorter tailed charges how
To hawk by the falling water.
In just two weeks, the newborn lambs
Shivering on their fragile heights,
Run in their grassy gangs, bleat with glee
And butt their last-drop ewes.
And in just two weeks, my dear mother who
Long nursed her loneliness in querulous complaint,
Has left her anxious quests and floated free, her mind
Abandoned in a bed boat of intensive care.
Published on:
May 23, 2009
