In the woods the trees are heavy with green

but it is cold for May.

The fat brown dog shambles her way along the stream.

Quiet scatterings of wood anemones pale as ghosts

gather under hedgerows

and a few thin bluebells hang their heads,

ink blue.

The trees are heavy with green.

The colour hangs like guilt,

a soft miasma of potential sadness

yet to unfurl.

A haziness of intentions masks

the sharp black branches of winters truth.

The valley is narrow and deep.

Here and there a new stream joins,

stained red with iron.

A heavy day filled with moisture.

Sometimes spring can be a disappointment.

We lift the fat brown dog into the car

and give her water after her exertions.

The slap slap slap of her tongue seems reassuring.

But I look up and lose myself

in the haze of springtime.

A time to fool you.

A time to lull your real life away.

A time when the trees are heavy with green.