The Equinox Parade

The horse chestnuts hunch like shepherds;
ushers to the vast crowd of ecstatic crocuses
joining the parade. They tumble along
the expanse of grass ...

Purpling - not bruises, or moody children,
nor pompous mountains wreathed in smoke,
but a congregation of popes. The chariot swing
from dawn to dusk.

Each mauve petal folds into a balloon,
straining its stem-string, wishing to rise
into burning blue circles of sky; kites,
birds - love songs.

They stampede and skid - falling into each
others' curved green footprints. Snowdrops
shrink away - embarrassed by their emptiness,
their leaden faces.

The daffodils ignore the rabble and criss-cross
of crocuses - easily excited, drunkards all!
They ruffle their buttered manes and trumpet
the arrival.

Spring ascends its leafy throne; pleased
by such enthusiasm. The clash of colour,
southern market stall - an impressionist's palette;
silent, silent elation.

Across the grass, the weeping willows sway.
Their tendrils trembling like ticker-tape.