Spring
When the wattles bright and bold
Flaunt their wet and draggled gold
Snowdrops, jonquils fair and frail
Flinch and tremble from the hail.
This is spring.
Farmer’s hands are chill and numb
Swallows wish they hadn’t come
Blackbirds whistle sweet and clear
Stubbornly and full of cheer.
This is spring.
Daisies in the sodden grass
Know quite well all this will pass
Skylarks singing, soar on high
Drop when thunder fills the sky.
This is spring?
Weather forecasts “local showers”
Turn to storms that last for hours
Sunny days are still more rare
Than even winter’s meagre share
And this, dear deluded friends,
Is spring!
© Mavis Turner (aged 95)
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