January

for Mark



All is raw and cold slices,

uphill against a distant sun

There is no respite from the pagan dark

but the seeker will not be idle

I have found the secrets

in the coastal gardens, snowdrops

shivering in their daring blooms

and flowering cherries undaunted

and reckless pink

I know where they are, old friends,

 hazel with its yellow tassles

 and nearby the wooly grey heads

of willow inform the waxing days

You see, there is life, ever present

pushing a common will

We are the steady ones born under

a heralding spring, early perhaps,

but someone  has to break the good news