Morning halos buds

With glowing glistening gold

Is this story told?

Though May be full out

The arctic blast makes me doubt

I’ll e’er cast my clout

Your warbling song call

Too fast for me to follow

Still settles my heart

We too inhale this

Pungently infectious scent

Our ancestors smelt

A sea of clover

Shows us which way the wind blows

But questions still grow

Fire, food, friends, fortune

Is not the things you possess

But the things you share

Reeds whisper when blown

Let the current take me home

The heron has flown

Time cannot be made

Can’t beg, borrow, steal or save

Ticking to the grave

Ripples on the stream

Where to paddle is to dream

We make our own steam

Life is made of days

Though they all must pass away

Make memories stay

Tarmac rivers flow

With noisy choking splutter

Buried in culverts

Rising from the swamp

Ancient hawthorn still clings on

Waiting for no one

Between joyous shrieks

Frogs leap across busy creeks

Silence slowly sleeps

With the marshes drained

And every mystery explained

Where does magic lay?

A fork in the road

Though petals cover the path

We simply follow

Inquisitive spy

Waiting for bugs to surprise

Before the mole tries

Wash me clear and clean

In rising fresh water streams

You fill up my dreams

Nettles bathed in red

Broken briar between our bed

Hawthorn hardened head

I launch parachutes

Ant sized clouds telling stories

Of fresh adventure

Knee high shoots graze our

Low slung bellies as we browse

Spring’s sweetest offerings

You can’t catch sunlight

Music lives but a moment

Will my words endure?

If I close my ears

And let my iris contract

My hands will let go

Always at the edge

Disappear into a speck

I’ll take what is left