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 …’
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.’