Where is Spring?

Winter persists with arrogance this year,
fingers of ice clutch tight at the hedgerows
leaving a trail of silver white frosting
over blackened boughs, stunting the new growth.

Even snowdrops shiver and become shy,
reluctant to show us their sweet faces.
Dawns creep in silently without birdsong
just the sound of human activity;

the drone of traffic on frozen tarmac,
the lonely wail of ambulance sirens
off to a motorway catastrophe
perhaps, is it the last call of their shift?

The sounds are of winter, melancholy;
pushing back the exuberance of spring.
Winter holding on for dear life, breathing
fiercely, March-ing onward towards April.