Last Snow

Birds, twigs
in beaks,

busy as a
flurry of snow
in the not-yet Spring.

Dust motes
floating, falling
blowing horizontal,
busy bright
in the light
of the sun.

Yellow tulips
on my windowsill –

Winter holds
to snow bones.

Lengthening days
welcome the flight
of birds, of us.

Others stop here.

Snow, busy busy
covers all who
choose to remain

those who are
not fleet-winged

those who are still,

After warmer weather the snow has returned to Cambridge, UK. And this is to those lost from the world this winter, claimed by the season.


Morning in Spring

Morning trees
wink emerald leaves
and clouds drift across
sky blue eyes

bird nests bloom
in a caress of wings
flowers wear colors
of surprise

summer will know
giant days
bright and slow
sleepyheads doze
in green pastures

but here’s a soft
morning in spring
a breeze through it all
like laughter

Garden Friend

Peck little peck
Bright heart, shining breast
A yellow suit
His Sunday best

All the morning
His chirping song
Cheers the sun
And day grows strong

Sunlit rainbows
Flashing wings
When he sees me
I swear he sings

Long may you peck
My garden friend
You soothed the cares
From my heart again

Garden Wild

I live outside
of things.

I creep close
to the bushes
and grunt
in the leaves
with the hedgehogs.

I breathe in
sweet jasmine
I breathe out
all the houses
I used to know.

My dress hangs
on a rose thorn
in a closet of
moonlit marigolds.

I am captured by
green wild owl
eyes and
none of the places
I used to know.

My face turned
towards sun
my heart a
flaming bird
burning as it goes.


I tremble
in Winter’s grasp
icicle teeth
and glacier claws
hold my yellow

Snowdrops play
her game
calm and chill
they masquerade
in her colours
heads bent and still.

But I stand
yellow and
vibrant nearly
reaching Spring,
I reflect the flower
at the heart
of the sun.

So she keeps
me tightly, a
snow cat ferocious
every talon and tooth
on her trembling prey.

And I wait for
the dance of light
I know must come-
the sky-eyed girl
with mirrors on her
sleeves twirling flashes
into Winter’s eyes
until she retreats
banished in colour
and the world wakes again.


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.’