Given the weather today this first poem seems utterly inappropriate. Never mind.

 

Spring.

 

The remnant cold white hush departs  

as another slow unfolding starts 

and a blush of virgin green imbues 

the sallow land with subtle hues.

 

 

Winter Yields.

 

A low, pallid sun scans a barcode of trees

acutely, through frosted and dormant degrees,

and ice appears molten, adorning a field

with crucible furrows the summer concealed.

 

 

Outdoor Pursuits.

 

I left a crowded Sheffield train

and bustled up the quiet lane

toward the stiles and stubborn sheep,

the muscle strain and measured leap.

Where once dry-stone wall builders went

I followed, breathlessly intent and swapped,

with well-shod, fell-bound fellows,

nods and waves and winded hellos.

High on tinder-heathered tops,

on risen bones of grit stone outcrops

cut by chisel wind and rain,

I trod on time’s uncouth terrain;

on aeons nested into peat

and canopies beneath my feet that

once threw shade on tracks and routes

when life was all outdoor pursuits.

Rising thermal drafts ensured

the dream of Icarus’ endured

as cloth-winged men and women leapt

off hills where hawks and falcons swept

on currents lapping looming pikes,

and fell like death in plummet strikes

on panting prey too slow to slip

a raptor’s eye and talon grip.

As shadows muted greens to black

the mountain sloughed me off its back

and I returned to valley roads;

to yellow lines and postal codes

where sodium and parallels and

narrow views and noxious smells

encouraged me to board a train

and travel to the hills again.