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So it begins again. The birds are first.
In thrall to primeval urges, watch them build.
High in the elms which shade the village green,
rooks sit, in pairs, at dusk, beside this day’s assemblings.
Bare twigs bear blossom. Bees, summoned from sleep,
Bumble among the magnolia.
Willows green, thinly. Lambs perform,
obedient to an ancient choreography.
Imperious Pan bids all
Dance, in time to Spring’s shrill violins.

But give me Winter. Give me the year’s cold heart.
Let grass stiffen, frost bedizened, let the centre
Of each thistle glisten with rime.
Not for me the rising sap, stirring of blood, restless
responses to the returning sun.

There on the hill, silhouetted against the sunset,
is a line of dancers led by the Cowled One,
his sickle sharp as the rising moon.
No choice but to join his danse.

© Dale Mitchell, March 2009