I can smell spring coming.

It smells like

pussywillows

and all the wet

drying.

 

It looks like ice

Cobwebbed

Awaiting

A firm step.

It looks like morning mist

All round the edges

Making mysterious

What once was plain.

 

I hear spring coming

On the winged V’s overhead,

In the cheery

Wake up calls

Of the nesters

Gathering again.

I feel spring

In the crunch

Of dead grass underfoot,

In the itching need

To peel off the familiar layers

And slow in the sun

Like a cat

Off it’s guard.

This season is subtle here,

No flashy show,

No extravagant exuberance.

It’s shy.

You need to slow

To welcome it well.

 

To see the poplars

Blushing red to their fingertips

In anticipation

Of what is to come.