Song Of a Mild Spring-wild March Day

Brook-song babbles and meanders through the brawny hinterland

Mirth of sun-warm zephyr chuckles where winter withdraws its band

Hill and hollow, chilled and fallow, hint at tints we nigh forgot

As the dreamer sighs and eyes the beaming slope and garden-plot

Barren vault exalts the laughter of the crow perched proud and bold

On the tree-top primed with pockets bursting with springtime’s first-gold

Now the moorland is a-glitter with the farmer’s passion stirred

And the morning is a-titter with the twittering of birds

Sun and shadow skims the meadow like a gray-gold patchwork quilt

Wafting over panoramic vistas bereft of leaf-lilt

Still, the thrill of ages surges through the onlooker once more

Where the ill of frigid splurges recedes to a far-off shore

Choristers of spring’s glad choir warm their voices, clear their throats

Long these song-soldiers have waited, shivering in threadbare coats

Nature’s Maestro draws His baton soft across the budded string

Holy, holy, hear the anthem of ten-thousand minstrels ring

© Janet Martin

Inspired on my way home this morning...