Spring has not yet sprung here.
Crocuses and daffodils are only just starting
to test the bitter air
with tentative green fingers,
as branches scrape against the gray woolen sky.
With the snow melted from all but the shadiest patches,
there is more to see on my morning walk.
I peer through the ditch-side alders,
a rib cage of naked sticks
guarding glimpses of this forest’s frozen heart –
…a mossy clearing where foxes will catch mice…
…a fallen tree-mother with a sapling rising from her back…
…dense brambles where deer will tuck in their young for the day…
Neglected words from childhood books spring forth
out of corners of my memory, seeking places to land –
thicket… copse… glade… fen… bracken…
Soon, the buds will unfurl from winter sleep,
and the exuberance of ash and blackberry
will raise a mask of green decorum over these secret spaces
where life rustles, tangled and wild,
hidden just steps from the docile pavement
Chère K.,
Love this one as much as the other you posted yesterday.
And Furl is a word in use in the Netherlands as well.
Although we mostly use it with sailing. If we expect that there’s a storm brewing, we furl the sails we don’t use.
I hope you will post ‘Shoegazer’ here too. We can do with some extra lovely music I think. And that one is sooooo good.
Love your writes to bits!
Warm regards, Gus
I lived there vibrant imagery in this! Where I live, weather has lost the rhythm. We’ve got drought, wildfires, 99° days followed by snowstorms, and then back up to 80° with 30° drops overnight. I don’t think either our flora or fauna know what to make of it. I miss daffodils and crocuses 😊
I like this !!
❤️
Beautifully penned, K. Excellent write with dazzling imagery my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian