No poem today
too busy walking along
the beach taking pics
chatting with Joan and her
husband at Beanwell, called that
because the sailors named it
‘Bien well’, good water, clear spring
in May watercressed abundance -
today not much to show of its
rich green. A man and his dog,
way out on the sands, silver
against grey sky intermittent sun, ash buds
black on smooth grey twigs
noticed how lime green with a dash
of pink sycamore buds are and Gean,
clusters of five or six buds mimicking
blossom to come, now held in tight
too cold to flower. Spring’s a month late
I told myself, told the wind, told a passing eider duck
and Roy who humours me, lies patiently waiting
behind a stone, or tuft of marsh grass.
No poem today, only windflowers crouched
and shrivelled, usually a carpet here of white
and wine petals. No-one around, no ghosts, no sound
of children running, no laughter, only oystercatchers
catching air in their wings and hazel catkins,
delicate buds holding late spring in unfurled leaves.
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