I watch

your sketchbook of the year

unfolding…

head bent, your golden hair

beneath the budding willow

~

after the blitz

and rationing

Grandma’s chocolate violets

still wrapped in cellophane

when she died

~

be open

to whatever may be…

a host of snowdrops

airing their wings

in the morning sun

~

being human

I see spring flowers

paling as they bloom…

tear-stained

the face of morning

~

a buttercup

under the chin of morning…

sun,

lay me down

in the arms of spring

~

will today’s clean sheet

bring poems or paper-cuts?..

no matter, love

at least it’s ours

this nick of time

~

how will you know

I am thinking of you?..

it is written

in green on the petals

of every snowdrop

(For Paul Smith)

~

the slant of rain

through budding lilacs…

the ink not yet dry

another poem

waits to bloom

~

spurred

by wild imaginings

the cat chases her tail

and I make a wish

on the ghost of a star

~

strangely light-hearted

she writes “I don’t love you”

on a helium balloon

and lets it

go

~

 

 you and I

on either side of the pond

deep in reflection…

the tremors from a gnat’s wing

and then, the stillness

~

postscript…

a flock of starlings fades

into grey distance,

all that remains

of the five lines I dreamed

~

we gather poems

from the petals of moments…

how we’ll make

the garden wild with poppies

and cornflowers

~

the faintest blush

to the pure white hyacinth –

for our children

even first love

has lost its innocence

~

 

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