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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: