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
