I WAS IN THE GARDEN
I was in the garden, dawn rising,
Walked the moss-scraped hoggin
To the wood. A dunnock scratted
In the litter, a thrush turned leaves.
The only song, if you can call it that,
Was the drone of a collared dove.
There had been snow, a light cover,
Enough to show the straight line of prints
Where the fox trod, squirrel pairs
And the two one one of a rabbit.
Snowdrops under snow were white in white,
One startled primrose hinted at spring.
At the top of the wood, on the far grass,
Was an old gatepost laid on log legs.
It was damp. I put down yesterday's paper,
Sat and stared out through the sycamores,
Across the fields, across the sands
Of Morecambe Bay to hummocked Bowland.
Our wintry garden was neglected,
Weeds thrived, brambles threw shoots
Through the dead tangle of woodland floor,
Small bluebell leaves lanced the leaf litter.
A wren, high-sterned like a galleon,
Thundered from an elder, all cannons blazing.
There was an expectation in the air,
So much to be decided, done, dug,
Compost heaps to turn, muck to spread.
I strode through early midges
Caught in the rising sun, kicked dew
From the grass, set about the day.