Spring Poetry

The Return

Lulled by winter chill
and light curtailed,
we don’t recall the toll
of quick befrilling slug and snail

But now the thug of trail
-and toil-
returns

(The tell-tale spiral, unshod shell;
a ‘keely’ early caught)

A cull is mooted;
brutal!
Perhaps a shoot;
disputed!

Called by daffodils
and camomile,
– and lone-consoling rain-
The gardeners’ spring travails
begin

In earnest
(gastropods are versatile)

As inestimable mouths
avail themselves of our morale,
and all our summer plans
annul.

Nigel Phillips
Whitchurch

---

Gone Is The Winter

Gone is the wind
And a cloak of white,
Gone is the chill
From the depth of night,
Gone is the sky
That was tinged with grey,
Gone are the mists
Which surrounded the day.

Gone is the frost
That covered the ground,
Gone is the ice
From the ponds it found,
Gone is the damp
Like an endless sea,
Gone is the sleep
From yonder tree.

Gone are the fires
That burn in the grate,
Gone are the coats
That the children hate,
Gone is the gloom
And of joy to bring,
Gone is the winter
And the coming of spring.

David W Morris
Llandaff North

---

After Dark

We wait until the light has left the sky,
Then slip into the park through the side gate,
Spring nights are warm enough to get by,
And no one much is out at this late.

We take the long path down be
The blossom you can smell but hardly see,
It falls on us like something out of a dream,
And for a while the night just lets us be,
Together and invisible it seems.

We walk back slow, not ready for the end,
Spring dark around us, fingers still entwined.

Alec Harvey
Rhiwbina

---

Rhiwbina in Spring

When spring comes slow to Rhiwbina village green,
The cherry trees along the high street wake,
And everything turns softer in between,
The old stone walls and paths beside the lake.

The Wenallt fills with green above the town,
And dog walkers take the morning trails,
The light comes longer now and settles down,
On garden gates and mossy Tudor rails.

The school run stirs the quiet of the lane,
And coffee cups are carried to the door,
The hanging baskets going up again,
As neighbours nod and say what spring is for.

The brook that runs behind the older streets,
Moves quicker now with all the recent rain,
And children find it out as school day meets
An afternoon too good to stay in plain.

The pub puts tables out beside the road,
And evenings stretch toward the longer days,
Two locals sharing something light and cold,
Caught easy in that soft spring golden haze.

Rhiwbina settles into what it knows,
The quiet rhythm of a village life,
When blossom falls and something in it slows,
And spring cuts through the winter like a knife.

Gordon Mainwaring
Rhiwbina

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