Days

when loose change

feels like money to burn

and the tractor

‘takes’

on the second turn

despite a hard frost

and the way it lay

idle a month.

Buds in the hedgerow

are shouting hurray.

You’re sawing in sun

and late Easter snows

a windfall,

and the faint blizzard

blows

lightsome delight

across the whole area.

The angel of each blade

of grass is whispering ‘Grow’.

Birdsong is an aria

in the opera of desire.

And she says, ‘What hurry’s

on you? Last to leaf

is longest to linger …’

Outside, among snow flurries,

the swallows,

fully fledged and free

as they can be

within the swoops and arcs

of a renewed rhapsody,

lift an already elevated heart

and launch themselves on ways

into the world as if to say,

‘Didn’t you know, don’t forget,

today’s

another of those pet days.’