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.

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