by Nick Graham
Skeletal hands on a dark winter’s night,
Silhouetted on the moon,
Grasping at the elusive darkness,
For a final desperate time.
A golden orb among the clouds,
Shafts of sunlight filter down,
They strike the twisted boughs of oak,
And ignite a blazing emerald flame.
The flame takes hold,
Then assumes a form,
A slender pane of bottle green glass,
Curled and lobed to please the eye.
Bursts of jade among the forest,
Backlit by the gleaming sun,
An explosion of colour,
An explosion of life.
A common scene across the land,
Accompanied by a lively soundtrack,
A cacophony of mewling cries and squeaks,
The new-borns’ chorus - the herald of Spring.
Glorious weather,
All sun - no rain,
A colourful land,
Full of life.
Of things to come,
A hope among the wind and rain.
The promise of Spring.
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