I don't have any new poems at present, and so I thought I would share with you the first days of spring, post equinox, in my country garden.
This morning we had a visit from six beautiful Gold Finches with their striking red flashes, feeding on bibbits in the grass; our resident Robin perched on the chicken run keeping a beady eye as I did the first weeding of the season round the apple tree. Blue Tits busy harvesting tiny twigs to build their nest; and those cockerels with confused body clocks! how they crow down in the meadow.
Nature, our natural form of poetry is tempestuous, and then beautifully graceful with her turning seasons and cycles of fertility and death, wrapped in her own fragility.