hovering in far distance
the blue ridge of the weald
stark trees still dreaming of an
almost unachievable Spring
last year’s leaf-litter pressed
into a shaping suck of mud
phantom fractals laying down
their memories of sunlight
and silent seasons past
stilled birdsong hangs in air
banded by a young year’s light
as we turn towards the woods
Feb/March 2021 – Hailsham Anthology 2021 – highly commended
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Love the poem Chris. Kind of has a pathos about it. Yet.positive in its sunlit outcome.