One
Fruit tree tangles top-lit by the sun
which warms our temples as we micro-doze
behind the rose of closed eyelids - then to
open them on emerald, black shadows strain.
Spring enters with a flourish of yelling babies,
giggle-shrieking toddlers, fuss-trilling birds
for this noon is a time for sitting out,
cool breeze trembling long grass-blades wants to sing
like the rasp of hautboys*, so unsubtle
in their praise with the tabor and whistle.
Go tell Laura Petrarch's voice is lilting;
that emboldened fauns clutch Flora's dress-hems,
blue speckled eggs are rocking in the nest,
and sun-dried, now, our trayed-parboils to roast.
..............................
*A 'hautboy' was an early, raucous, form of the oboe.
.........................
Two
Green budded the thorn
to spring into leaf;
white-budded the pear
(now, come to no grief).
In woods the red campion's
lining the way;
the blackthorn's white blossoms
declare for the day.
Chaffinch is singing
his liquid trill,
while late sun is lolling
on crown of the hill.
