Early signs of spring,
The end of winter and tender stirrings of spring.
Snowdrops are spiking lashy as leaves.
They have scattered themselves in clumps across the hard ground like tiny votive lights.
The hazel trees have a wiggle on.
Their chenille lambs tails are profligate with pollen.
At the edges of the ponds,
The frogs croaking sounds like purring as their spawn slides out of them in the cold sunshine.
In my garden,
The witch hazel tree is a natural year's first to blossom.
Its yellow petals are like small streamers of celebration.
All the season's signature tunes are out and about,
Excited by the lengthening light,
The promise of a jubilant welcome back into the heart of life.
What else?
Yesterday,
I saw two ravens with their wingtips almost touching,
Wheeling in the air above me in atavistic ecstasy with unflinching focus.
Watching them in their sky,
Love,
Felt like a blessing.
What about Brigid as a young girl?
They say she has a circle of real stars in her hair,
Puts her foot to the earth every time,
As if it's the first.
Is it true,
Wherever she goes,
Snowdrops spring up in her footsteps?
I haven't seen her yet,
But I know she's there.
What about the colours?
Every colour,
Known to nature,
Is waiting patiently beneath the ground.
The velvety soft yellow of primroses,
The damp,
Translucent,
Lettuce green of early beech leaves,
The whites and pinks of blackthorn and hawthorn blossom,
Rosehip and rowanberry reds,
The russets and deep oranges of the leaves in autumn.
All are snaking,
Undulating,
Mixing and blending beneath the ground,
Poised to take over from the ever-dependable evergreens and recolour the land.
The shortest days,
The darkest nights,
The deepest dreams are done.
