February, the lawns and paths slippery with leaves,
dank and wet, the soil like mud. In the borders
stark skeletons of plants, brown with withered stalks,
detritus all about, trees dark and stark against
a grey and heavy lowering sunless sky.

Then, waiting for a poem, I gaze out of the window.
two fat pigeons have chased the blackbirds away
from the bounty of the bird table. Squirrels perch
on the bare magnolia , munching on the fat balls,
a knocking on the window, pigeons fly, squirrels run,
blackbirds and bluetits swoop in, order is restored.
The witch hazel is covered in it’s yellow curligigs
and by the wall the jasmine nudiflorum scents the air,
in the woodland walk the snowdrop shoots are strong,
soon their drooping white blooms will line the path,
in the bog garden the bergenia shows budding tips.

The day fades, the dull sky changes, to the West
a far stretching purple horizon presses the land,
above, a long low line of golden light lies gleaming,
becoming a glowing orange then fading to white,
last of the unseen sun, but soon, it will be spring.


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