Here is the first poem from the ‘Four Season Quartet’.

Waiting for Spring

Where is Spring?
I’ve been waiting all winter long for a special dawn to break,
uplifted by a melodious blackbird call.
Each new day a little longer,
every dawn chorus a tiny bit fuller.
Illuminating my room, enhancing my dreams. 

First came the robin,
singing with the street lights,
on mornings still shrouded in winter gloom.
Then the chaffinch and the wren,
reaching from the shadows in frantic bursts.
But I’m still waiting for those goldfinch necklaces of song

Late again.
Winter lingers in March.
Buds must unfurl before green caterpillars can munch,
and blue tits are already calling.
How can their eggs be laid let alone hatch,
if their food supply is stalling.
Fickle Spring, where are you? 

Will the song-thrush stay the year and nest,
or tease and only be here briefly for respite,
waiting for the wicked winter east to melt.
Flying north, I hear that the blackcap tags along with cruise ships.
How amazing. Fancy migrating,
to majestic Norwegian fiords.
Wish I could watch glaciers retreat
and barren slopes become green. 

Our winter guests feasted on sliced apple,
and wrestled with dried worms too.
Then caught tasty insects napping,
unthawing in the frosty sun.
Might that be enough to tempt them,
to stay and sing their eloquent songs.
Please choose my garden for your own.

In April, I look skywards daily for the martin scouts.
Homecoming. After six thousand miles.
They were shot at over Malta, over Gibraltar too.
But GB is special, worth the sacrifice,
for rearing two broods under our roofs.
We should wave flags, cry “Welcome.”
But next door muttered about taking their nest down.
Why must people keep their PVC windowsills so clean?
“Birds are dirty, like rats. Vermin.
We can’t tolerate their poo.”
Message understood: tell the martin flock
waiting patiently nearby,
there is no home here anymore. 

But a million discarded fly wings used to glitter,
silver grey, before disappearing, blown away.
Dust, like desert sand. Fly Sahara - fly Gobi.
All to be in England in the Spring. Isn't that wonderful?
“No. I’m very busy and find nature incredibly dull.”

Festooned in buttercups, Spring culminates in May.
What better month is there in the entire year?
Carpet me in wild flowers,
from the clifftop to way way down.
Bury me amongst the dead ‘uns.
Christ! Keep those shrimps away from my eyes.
There amongst the waves I’ll toss a daisy,
celebrate a union of earth, sea and sky.
Who knows what passes in the ocean,
just keep me on the surface and alive.

Is that a comet or a shooting star?
“Neither, idiot - the sun is high.”
Dive! Dive falcon, faster than any other thing alive.
Kill quickly.
“That gull chick is screaming loudly and look,
it’s dangling from those bloody claws.”
Nature can be such a nuisance.
“You ruined my picnic. I’ll get you back.
Let’s leave our litter behind. Serves it right.”
It was too beautiful for words when Spring arrived.
What a shame everything changes, even perfection, spoilt.