Ballad To Spring

ballad to spring. For little robin, red breast, On my spade, you sit. With bobbing head, and twitch of tail, As another season now say's farewell. In the bracing chill skip, sprightly, On this sun-drenched day. Look up towards the heavens, And be thankful come what may. The coming days grow longer, With life refreshed anew. As flecks of white and purple, Permeate among the dew. Erupting upward shards of green, With heads in saffron gold, A multitude of trumpets play, Herald forth as spring unfolds. Under tip of twig now freshly dipped In a cornucopia of greens. In waives that crest, where bluebells rest, And one can sit and dream. For nothing say's that spring is here, More than posies clutched, and garlands fare. A chick, an egg, and the mad march hare, The wild of youth without a care. © N Windle 20017