A strange take on spring, but here goes …

She stands lips
red as heart
hair a black
waterfall in a
starless night.

Her voice like
dry bones
calls the rain.

‘From cold stone
I walk again.
A child spoke
my name and
dark blood crawled
slow waking a
whispering pulse
like the stirring
of grass long and lush
in a half-
remembered place.

From the deep
I broke through
bare rock a
crocus rising
throwing off
the winter in
red flame.’