There’s all the beauty of Spring, clear blue skies, brilliant flowers that we’ve longed to see, and then there’s the other side. We become aware, at least I do, of the half-hidden litter by roadsides, fences forgotten over winter …
COMES SPRING
brown blurs into green
fantasias colour bloom
along pathways witched wreathed
beneath rotting billboards
comes wild presence
tresses tangled
azure emerald on shoulders
flowers blade stretch
around broken fences
grasses linger lips cheeks
touch palms beyond
root spear upward
riotous fertility
over logged hillsides
A Summer Father … terse, imagistic lines; … It’s not nostalgia that we experience but quiet, poignant grief. Richard Stevenson