Spring is coming in the quickening trees
Birdsong insistence is loading the breeze

Buds are aching on tensile stems
All arching skywards, sinuous bends

Short sighted start gazers wander the wood
As twinkling chaos hangs up above

Blackthorn and cherry explode their eyes open
And millions of green tongues lick the ground broken

Opening up for all life to slide out
Dead winter crushed by the wild spring shout

George Smith