it happens most mornings

The moment when the sun

rising slowly

above the rim of the downs

behind our village

settles her gaze upon the trees.

Then the trees shine, softly at first,

gathering momentum

as winter slowly progresses

into spring

and the bare branches become

deep burgundy and gold,

The fat purple buds of the alder trees,

so tall and thin and proud

in the damp woodland,

their regal winter colours slowly softening

into pale greens.

Then the birdsong becomes deafening

the snowdrops slowly disappear once more,

and the snow on my head slowly thins.

this poem is a new one and my most recent collection can be found in a volume called Gaia's Angry Daughter, by Sylvia Clare  on Amazon