a brace of camellia buds,
pale gold and swollen,
nod knowingly in the rain
March puddles may come,
but the thrush still shouts
when he’s discovered his mate
April is at the threshold
and soon a parish of sparrows
will be singing themselves silly
in the branches of the wild plum
© Sarah Whiteley
Advertisements
A poem which epitomises the essence of “stop and smell the flowers along the way”
David
LikeLike
Nice. Enough to put a spring in one’s step. 😉
LikeLike
Wow–excellent!
LikeLike
What a delightful poem.
LikeLike
A beautiful ode to Spring
LikeLike
This is very nice indeed. I don’t know why I didn’t see it at the time and I’m glad to catch up now.
LikeLike