The name for Spring, a joyous supplication,
your hands raised in the real air,
Under your feet the pavement speaks with heat
And a new soil appears in the gutter, blowing in flurries.
And oh God the people smile, you can see their teeth
In the mirror of sky, but their faces are blue yet,
While the first Spring runs on the rooftops and
Oozes over each slate overlap, to drop
And slide unseen across the entire surface of love.
And out in the hills she raises her chin
And wins majestic, with hair like dragons flowing
On the grasses back, the glint of her eyes flashing
In the deepest cave of trees, and the moss crawls
Round to the sun and laughs (at least, I saw it smile)
You could lie in the sting of nettles, in a blackthorn hedge,
In the acid cry of a bush of gorse,
And, yes, couldn’t you? Even fall off the leaves
Of a branchless tree to bounce on the drying leafmould
And shout with good;
Examine the buds – they’re here!
The little bullets of overlapping softest green,
The slightest voice of truth,
And you could run and shout in the silence
Until the passing air was a wind
And your voice was snatched away
By the guardians of peace.