A Slow Spring

A Slow Spring


A slow spring:

Coiled and ready

Pressed down hard

Contained and compact

Energy building like a storm

Tingling with life.

A slow spring:

Buds swelling and greening

Twigs quivering with anticipation

And the quickening feet of sparrows

Making them bend and shake;

Soft breezes, not harsh gales.

A slow spring

Fields still bare, brown

Mud becoming fertile chocolate

Laid in stripes across land

Seeded and prepared

And poised to explode.

A slow spring:

Bird song rising to crescendo

Drowning the rush of melt-water

And the creak of old trees

Shaking with surging sap and age

A slow spring:

Rushing rampant

Wanton in warmth

Catching up lost time

Hurtling recklessly forward

Into a swift, welcome summer.


I noticed yesterday on my walk that though the daytime temperatures have not risen much above five degrees yet, the bird song is all spring songs and the quality of the light has changed quite distinctly.

I wrote the following poem a few years back after a rather haunting dream of being stalked by a polar bear….



The fields of endless white

Spread further than the eye can see,

Grim mountains of jagged grey,

Still clad in silken swathes of snow,

The air so crisp it tastes of glass

And fills my mouth with blood.

A scent of stones fills the air,

Old and cold as passing time.

The crunch of paws though ice,

Breath like steaming clouds,

A stench of passing death,

The brush of icy whiskers

As Winter’s bear retreats.

I stand alone on the snowfield,

The trickle of the starting thaw

A quiet chuckle at the passing

Of the season’s snow bear

And the merriment of the new.


The Gateway to Summer

PICT0827This is a picture I took a month or so back at Somerleyton Hall, a stately home and gardens about five miles from home. The gardens are especially lovely. Summer is about at an end and I thought this photo was a good reminder of the sunny days and flowers we’ve had.

I’m having trouble facing the darker days that are coming. I have to remind myself the light will return.

Spring is…?

Spring is…?


Spring is a lamb shorn far too soon,

Ready too early for the warmer days.

We wrap our tender plants in fleece,

Encase our bodies in woollen layers

Swathed in scarves, snug in gloves

We stand against the blast of wind.

Spring is a lad blowing hot and then cold,

An immature suitor unsure of his charms:
Today the strong and silent type,

Macho and frosty as a December night.

Tomorrow he’s the Latin lover,

All passion and heat and sunlit smiles.

Spring is a puzzle that challenges each year,

Demanding that we solve it this time.

We dress for the worst, hope for the best,

And just when we think we have it sussed,

It changes the rules and snows in May.