Cliff Ashby: Spring

Thank God for
The dispassionate Sun,
Birds that mate
In magnificent trees,
Water fowl
That splash down
On a cheerful river.

Say a prayer
For the squirrel
And the cock pheasant
Disappearing into the orchard.

Let’s hear it for
The humble lark
And linnet,
The flamboyant magpie,
Children on swings,
Old men warming chilled bones
And the simple who
Make no complaint.

Hurrah for
The tiny flowers
For which I have no name,
Discovered in odd corners,
The cuckoo, still to come,
Whitethroat, swift and swallow,
And yours truly
Sitting in the sun,
Wondering where the hell
The next poem’s coming from.

Ashby’s publisher notes that “Towards the end of his long life [he died in 2012 aged 92] he spent much time watching birds on the feeder outside his window.” Not a bad ending.