In this season of burgeoning birdsong,
the prelude that rises in every bird’s breast
as it grasps aloft the ripening bough
or pirouettes with its mate in the air,
there is felt again the ritual of life.
There is felt deep within the human brain
the whole of nature stirring, the heart too
is moved, as though this was as much of nature,
as though spring was with human life imbued,
and understood in all its expectation.
And understood in all its hope and joy,
the sunlight soft, compelling, elevating,
the bare branches lightened in the warmth
lifting the trees, a wonderful spectacle
in their skies braced for leaf and blossom.
In their skies, in their countless numbers
the episodes rustle, in undergrowth and
water, the lake smooth as a table green
conceals, reveals in the scuffle of ducks;
on the green, the ravens fold wings and strut.
On the green grass strays walker and dog;
tiny tots move in a group of four with
a leader, a taller girl in pig-tails, stridently
she calls, till the last little one, pausing
only to look at me, is drawn away.