Rustle of Spring

Sweeping leaves from my lawn;
beneath the crisp, brown sward,
like small, green swords, crocuses,
narcissi, irises, and daffodils,
push forth, impatient for February
to leave...

Already outstaying its welcome
by an extra day. Leap Year – who
needs it? Only ‘the fairer sex’,
eager to propose. And what of
tomorrow?

Will Spring, famously shy to a fault,
hide in March’s billowing skirts,
as a sudden corridor of wind scars
the corrugated fields that nudge
my own backyard, which does not
bode well.

Somewhere, far off, a dog barks,
and the whistle of a train, tells me
that same wind is back in the east
again, to rattle the stable door
and blow down the fences.

As I write, rain spears the window,
and I turn the heating up a notch;
watch Winter put its feet up by the fire –
pour itself a Scotch, and refuse to go.
Well, who would; would you?