Friday, March 28, 2008

January, February, March the buds are swelling and the leaves almost here!




There's a smidgen of a smidgen of colour round the oak

Like a little misty halo, like a shifting orange smoke.

There's a whisper of a whisper of flowers on the ash

Like tiny threads of cotton, like a greeny-yellow rash.

And for sure, there on the chestnut, there's a swelling sticky bud

(Though the fields around are soaking and the cows knee deep in mud.)

And the primroses are blooming, and it's fast becoming clear

There's a rumour of a rumour that spring is really here.

Christmas Eve

When the sun is weak and the nights are long

You hear earth singing a different song.

The mist rises white from the grass all around

Life stirs in its sleep underneath the ground.

The deep dark earth, soon to be our home,

This is the place from where visions come.

The visions rise and seem to me

As solid as the trunk of the old oak tree.

And none would believe them if they didn't know

That something like the oak from dull earth would grow.

And just as improbable and just as odd

To this dark earth came the son of god.