I can’t resist the cherry trees or A.E. Housman so here they are again.
Loveliest of Trees
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my three score years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Spring and Fall
Forsythia blazes golden in my garden,
Daffodils bob and sway, the hedge unfurls
Into a tender tangle of green curls,
Old fruit trees creak as new buds swell and harden.
Now finches fall in showers, thrushes sing
And blackbirds bounce in conflict, shrieking shrill,
Ponds fizz with tadpoles, squirmingly alive,
Trout leap, lambs stagger, piglets roll and thrive.
The whole world gleams and wriggles, nothing’s still
In the dizzying effulgence that is spring.
But I lie dormant, thirsting for the call
That does not come. I hang in winter air,
Flung between rigid patience and despair,
Hoping to spring yet fearful of a fall.
Postscript to a Spring Sonnet
Snowdrifts prove me wrong
To have dreamed a spring song,
Too early, careless sung,
Too late knowing.
Nestlings halt small lives
Under sleet knives,
Buds stain and fade
Hacked by snow-blade,
Blossom’s blighted brown,
Fry and tadpole drown.
And lambs freeze to death
Before they can draw breath,
Too early given tongue,
Too soon going,
Killed by the icy swing
Of unpredictable Spring
In two cruel days.
Whom Gaia breeds, she slays.
I’m sorry to strike a sad note at the end but I am rather down, having had to face the fact, that since Mr Powell of the Felpham Village Conservation Society put his article in Felpham in Focus there is nothing I can do to save poor Blake’s Cottage.