is earthshattering,
a blackbird’s made its nest
in the hawthorn tree,
and breaking as I write,
seedlings planted a month ago
are bursting forth, teasing
us with their rainbow hints,
but if you rub
a leaf
between finger and thumb
you can smell summer
already; a baby is kicking
its legs
in response at the clouds
rolling over her like a news tape
filled with sun-bites,
while over by the swings,
a camellia
leads an uprising
of blood red against the privet,
tulips and bluebells form a late coalition,
and even the grass strengthens its position
near where this morning, at five past eleven
dizzy with dandelion flowers
the cat let a pigeon fly free.
Only the plane tree, obedient
to the season follows the prompts
while propped up against the wall
already warming itself for glory,
the first rosebud waits for her cue.
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