Friday, 8 April 2011

the bare tree starts to shudder into life
those tiny bows tightly
ruched and gathered along the branches
a pale is-it-green warble of change

butterflies hold still
a quake in the air
there is a swarm somewhere in the thatch
thrumming thrumming thrumming
hypnotic swirl of bees
I take a path away
a few in my hair make temporary homes
then threshold over  into the cloudless blue