Golden morning
In the trough of the gale and a timid sun,
in the green gauze of new leaf
that mantles every tree,
in the long grass trembling
in the trailing breeze of the wind’s tail,
the morning meadow wakes,
crowded with buttercups.
Brigid’s fire
She runs on silent feet,
fleeter than the day,
wayward hares and chicks.
She treads a path along
song lines and bough-hung rides,
tides of blossom washed.
In her light tread ,
dead wood bursts bright,
ignites spring fires,
spills oceans green, blue, white,
alight and singing,
winging, the year’s feathered heart.
Crane-sky
Cranes, loosely ranked,
sprawl,
straddling spring sky,
the wind-stirred ocean,
grey cloud-billowed.
Unruly mariners,
rough-voiced, tender,
they form, re-form,
wingtips touching,
buoying up the weak,
leaving none behind
to drown.
Spring sailing
Soaring spring urges with spread wings,
golden finch-flutter in diamond-dewed grass,
scented sharp with morning.
We ask how to join the wild dance;
will the ship she sends stop for us?
Beneath this sky hung with foaming clouds,
we stand, feet sinking in the mud,
the taste of disappointment on our tongues,
watching the river run away.
Listen, she says, to the music,
let the murmur become a chorus,
turning the forest shadows to an ocean,
waves of birdsong, rising and falling,
drawing feathered, petaled and furred
into a slow eruption of beauty.
And through the broken veil of sullen silence,
the singing guides our ship, new as eggs,
to the banks of our muddy stream.
Spring-white
Before the cherry,
the wild plum
shows winter how to snow.
Bluebell, bright
lavender sunset,
mocks the grey of the sky,
and a thousand song birds
ring pealed bells of laughter
at stay-at-homes.
Reasons to be cheerful (again)
Sun after the rain, sodden cloud-blanket lifted,
watching the pheasants eating the tossed grain,
robins,
walls running with lizards,
connecting with contented offspring,
bee-hum vibrating honeysuckle flowers,
Theresa the toad back in her hollow tree,
first muscari blueing grassy banks,
pruning roses already shooting,
thrush chorus echoing through the budding trees,
a walk through woods following tracks of some huge canine.
First toothwort raising its clandestine head,
in the soft mud of stream bank, white violets,
billows of speedwell, daisy-eyed,
and the first noisy, chaotic skein of undecided cranes—
go back, stay or follow the southern star.
The Four Swans 