Clouding the ground like an oncoming storm,
snowdrop drifts fill the spaces between trees.
White heads nod in concert
poised
like the ‘cranes’ in fairground slot machines
just before the time is up.
This is Spring stirring stoically against the odds
a clarion call for gathering newness
and the growing of grass.
Soon the sound of mowers will
disgrace Sunday mornings
with their groaning
and the smell of executed grass
will incense the days.
5 comments:
Bitter sweet in its message...brilliantly done as ever!
excellent - the beauty of spring and the din of mowers
solid poem!
Another cracker, Keefers!
Richard-the Beard!
Beautiful impressions. Here's back to you, Keith...http://issuu.com/deedub51/docs/formed_into_flesh_2...Doug Blair, Waterloo, Canada
and the smell of executed grass
will incense the days.
brilliant
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