Chris McDonnell: A Change of Season
A change of season
The chill, dark soil of winter
eases the season change
over the folded hills of March.
Damp, stained shoes from a walk
through frost-flaked grass
till, on reaching the farm gate,
the sprung metal catch anchors
bare fingers, swings open, then
clatters closed behind, rattling.
Flowers are breaking through
ahead of time offering purple
yellow and white amid green.
Gather time in cupped hands
guard it as a nest for later rest
when evening comes close.
Then settle down with memories,
Of people, places and events
Close your hands round dreams.