In Ireland, the first day of February is the first day of Spring – Imbolc to the ancients, St Brigid’s day to the Catholic church. I try to remember that as I look out at the pouring rain. Later, I walk up the lane. There are snowdrops buried in the dark hedgerow, and I see a single primrose, pale as February sunshine.
so much mud
I can hardly see
the snowdrops
A haibun for Frank, who is hosting at dVerse tonight. He asks us to look for the first signs of spring.
March is the toddler month – on the first day she brought us sunshine and led us out to the vegetable patch. On the second day she screamed a gale and threw rain clouds across the sky. I don’t know what to wear today, or what her mood will be like.
golden celandine
primrose tucked beneath the hedge
sunlight on the grass
Merrill is hosting at dVerse tonight and we are writing haibuns. I’m trying to make my haibuns shorter and tighter at the moment – as is traditional.
Spring’s a kid
in a bright green hoodie,
yellow spray paint, and purple,
pink and green and white –
tagging everything in sight,
blasting birdsong at top volume,
running, laughing,
scattering shoots and leaves
and petals, dancing
through the rain.
Over at dVerse, Jilly asks us to write a poem about something invisible but real – love, maybe, or a child’s imagination, or springtime…
Those days
when nothing means anything,
just restlessness,
as if your skin was too small,
too big, too hot
when water is too wet
that’s crazy, right?
Those days, when we inch through silence,
or stumble, bumping our hips
on words, clattering against
thoughts unspoken,
and we look out of the window,
yearning for the road home
away
away
and we look for meaning
in the running tap,
for sense
in the shifting clouds
Jilly’s doing this thing for the next 28 days. She’s writing poems that are inspired by quotes from Jim Harrison. Today’s quote is:
“Spring day, too loud for talk
when bones tire of their flesh
and want something better.”
~Harrison
from Return
There was a bright yellow balloon tangled in the hedge, happily bobbing up and down as the cars drove past. It’s hard to believe that it hasn’t been burst – everything is so spiky at the moment – or maybe I’m just more aware of those thorns at the moment because of the way spring is starting to hide them. The blackthorn has long, sharp spikes hidden by soft white blossom. The hawthorn has leaves now – bright, wax crayon green – hiding its thorns, and the gorse is a mass of bright coconut scented gold, in among the spines and prickles. Yet somehow, amongst all this, there is the yellow balloon, glowing in the spring sunshine.
Primroses whisper
Daffodils sing bright and clear,
Spring gold in the green
A haibun for NaPoWriMo – specifically a haibun set in our home surrounds. It’s Day 12 of NaPoWriMo, seems to be flying by. It’s not too late to join in…
There was snow all around, but her houme was a haven for spring. Around the little cottage the grass was green, and the air was scented with primroses and bluebells. Birds flitted here and there, and petals floated down from the cherry trees, echoing the snow falling on the fields and hills all around.
Spring would come in the outside world, and for a few days her garden would be aligned with the land. Summer would leave it behind, and she would watch wistfully as wild roses blossomed in the hedgerows, and fledgelings left nests. Cherries ripened in the orchards, but not in her garden. Autumn brought blackberries, ripe apples, and leaves turning gold and amber, drifting down to form great carpets of colour, but her garden remained green and fresh and young.
She sighed, and turned away from the window. Would she have chosen eternal youth if she had known that it would be this lonely? She ran her fingers through her long, dark hair, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was smooth, her eyes were bright. She smiled.
Yes. She would make this choice again.
This is for Sue Vincents #writephoto prompt.
As far as we’ll go.
It’s the middle of spring
and my mother is turning
into a bird. I’m a little afraid
that the wind up here
will send her sailing away
like a kite, but she’s smiling.
This is as far as we’ll go:
there’s a bench, where
my parents can sit
and soak in the sun.
The kids are roaming,
a little bit aimless,
crushing the spring grass
that’s studded with stitchwort
and bluebells. We walked here
through cloud after cloud
of blackthorn, but this
is as far as we’ll go.
We’re so high, and
down in the bay
the water is bluer
than blue, and sparkling,
catching the sunlight –
sunshine in April –
always a blessing –
and a smooth shape
breaks through the waves,
a porpoise is playing.
But this is as far as we’ll go.
Round here, spring trickles
down the lane, half mud
half water
singing.
The starlings cluster, curdle
the telephone lines,
weaving together a great
leaving
singing
and there are buds
just whispering green
in the hedgerow
singing
and primrose
sunlight creeping
over the doorstep,
singing.
We have all agreed that today felt like it was properly spring – though tomorrow may feel like something else entirely. There are celandines everywhere, and pale primroses, and periwinkles like handfuls of sky. Kim at dVerse has given us ‘spring’ as our quadrille prompt. It’s definitely in the air.
She knew it was spring
because the shirts danced
on the line, and the sun
shone warm across
her shoulders.
The rooks were calling
from tree to tree
and there were primroses
moonlight pale
along the bank
and for a moment,
she forgot herself.
It’s quadrille night at dVerse. Kim is spring cleaning, springing into action, and giving us ‘spring’ as our quadrille word tonight. Check out the bar, order something zingy, write a poem, read some poems, enjoy yourself.
I know this trail so well. It leads from the road into the woods. I’ve been here in every season, and every kind of weather. I’ve walked here in the moonlight, in the sunlight, and in the rain. I’ve paced here, cycled here, strolled here, and today I’m running – for my body and my soul. If you follow me, you’ll pass the bank where the old man’s beard runs wild. It won’t last much longer, now spring is on its way. A little further on a brook runs by the side of the path, clear water, where cresses will grow in a few weeks’ time. We cross the river, and pause to look for the heron, who stands one-legged in the water that crashes over the weir. Beyond the bridge the banks are high around us, it’s darker, and rhododendrons grow leggy in the shade, but then we cross the meandering river again and find ourselves high among the branches of the woodland. We look down, down, down to the forest floor, where soon there will be bluebells, and ransoms, and wild garlic, yellow celandine and dog violets. There will be sweet flower scents, and the green scent of trees, and the savoury smell of the ransoms. The river is quiet here, but there are birds singing, and the sudden rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker calls us to stop for a moment. There is the whisper of green in the tips of twigs, and the blackthorn is blossoming already. Spring is coming, drawing green spikes up from the dull earth, setting green finches dancing through the air, and filling my lungs with clear light.
Drum roll in the woods
Fanfare of green, white and gold
Spring songs in the woods
Toni at dVerse invites us to bathe in a forest, sink into nature, and let ourselves go. Check out the poets’ pub – it’s friendly, and there’s some great poetry there.
