My Seventy-fifth Spring


Through my cottage window an early mist
Greys the quiet horizon's hedge of thorn;
The hidden sun lets drowsy Spring doze on
For this, my latest view of hopeful dawn.
Now the dull sky fills with cackling rooks
Scared by farmland field-guns to grey-nosed flight
Above my garden - graced by silvered doves
And head-bobbing pigeons, flashing necks of white.
As the snow-drop nods good-bye for one more year
Daffodil and crocus sing of April days:
Of spikes of life that burst on every branch
And fields, half-green, with signs of sun-filled maize.
From here no long-lived rooks give cause for fears,
Just levitating lambs - with days for years.

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