Garden

Two blackbirds flit in and out
of dead, fallen branches,
in a garden filled with
brand new colour
and a Belfast sink.
Ferns, green and hardy,
trail down from the roof
and the black iron window bars
have started to peel;
beautiful rust outside these
dove grey walls.

The daffodils have begun
to wilt, 
yellow giving way to blue.
Harebells find pathways 
through the woods
and I see apple blossoms
in a new light.
We talk of being children
in an era long gone
and I can smell sea-salt
on my open hands.

Foraging

Light lingers,
like the smell of thyme
on that newly born mountain.

Spring, fresh as birth/
wild as oak,
holds her tune.

Our river,
mysterious and ancient as the night,
rushes forth.

The past is younger than our fading youth.
I gather my mornings in close
and pick harebells in the evening's white glow.