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my world still turns,  

seasons bargain to exchange their tenure,

an unfulfilled, lacklustre winter

packs up its chilling spells, as

exuberant spring knocks my door,

I feel I must be busy

I prepare, I tidy, I prune, I dream

four weeks, perhaps a little longer

to fulfil my plan,

before a helpless torpor

will cut my core,

forcing me to idly spectate,

I’ll watch the heavy blossom bounce

wake early with the blackbird

crave the smell of freshly turned soil 

between my fingers

as spring begins to waltz with summer,

forced to sit out the dance

I’ll watch the carnival pass

a convalescing voyeur.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021