When Winter leaves Chelmarsh by Irena Szirtes

Do I alone mourn Winter when we welcome in the Spring?

     I miss jackdaw fly-bys at dusk;

     Dawn-black trees, against seared sky

     Like pathways in a brain,

     And sheep's breath, soft-blown

     To air so fierce it soaks my bones

     Like dry desolate water.

     I miss leaves staring from ice 

     Like Millais' Ophelia, open-eyed,

     Wordless in water, disturbing me

     When I was small;

     And sky-sloughed cloud,

     Melting gravestones, conjuring 

     Vicarage turrets little by little,

     Painting it’s own gothic novel.

     I miss starched sunflowers,

     Rank upon rank, like spindly statues 

     Guarding their commander's tomb,

     As birdsong drills the cold,

     Prickling and puncturing my ears.

     I miss the starting victory 

     Of sudden winter sun,

     Firing light-shocks through 

     Tangles of dark branches,

     And winds, worrying and whistling

    At the Bull's Head door.

    But then I see catkins braving 

    Bare stems, and tiny buds tight-shut.

    Snowdrops flitter in a slicing breeze,

    Lambs suckle, afterbirths shrivel,

And I'll be mourning Winter, while welcoming the Spring.