Spring Contrasts

Pocketed by the glove of fog
The day slips into a world of white
Where even the birds
Are silent
And remain unseen.

There’s a pointedness 
In the roughened fingers of wind
That wrap around the western walls 
Causing slender branches to dance
Beneath the misted pane.

The old roof nods to the wind
Passing through
Slates rattle and timbers shift
Rain courses
The ground,a sodden carpet
Of patterned hue
Is washed and faded 
And is hung out.

Yet below the saturated soil 
Threads begin to stitch
Embroidering fine roots of white 
As Spring cannot be stolen
And sap laces its way
To return the world to green.