POEMS
Blake Morrison
SPRING
Tha t year the yea r could not ge t shifting.
Magpies chammered like a n engine refu sin g
to
fire.
The crocuses were deepl y into themselves,
locked in the soo ty ma ntra o f the ir cowls .
No sign of life in the sacs o f frogs pawn
as they swagged in just-unfrozen ponds.
On the fou rteenth of April the bombe rs left,
a ghos t-life of snow slipping from the ir win gs
as the engines wa rmed , then the despe ra te sp rin t
till they lifted with the awkwa rdness of busta rds,
holding a forma tion like the ten of spades
out ac ross the fl a tl a nds to the coas t.
And almost a t once the fi el d was off -
goosegrass with its hooks ge tting the ha ng of things ,
b rambl es lay ing wire a long the backs o f hedges ,
wa ft s o f bil be rry from the orcha rd ,
and up the winding sta ir of its own making
convolvulu s expa nsive in its cups.
The wheel comes round a nd the potter pulls up
a stocking of clay . If onl y we beli eved
nothing can stop these miracles of burgeoning,
the haws, the umbril s, the ink in the frogspawn ,
our kids running for shelte r from the paddling pool,
fres h grass mowings ve lcro'd to their legs.
