it happens most mornings
The moment when the sun
above the rim of the downs
behind our village
settles her gaze upon the trees.
Then the trees shine, softly at first,
as winter slowly progresses
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