The first of spring.

 
You could feel it in the air,
a drift of snowdrops,
a bank of daffodils,
a few weeks early.
 
Sun, wild rain and sleet,
cycling round the back lanes;
no birds,
no insects,
like a science fiction play,
on radio 4.
 
The shaved countryside,
closed down,
with rainbows.
 
We passed the farmer,
who wanted to talk,
cold and wet,
the sun came out.
 
The young giro mother,
in McDonalds,
had a beautiful daughter,
curious;
she carried a contented baby,
in her arms.
 
And a thin girl,
had platted pink hair;
the handsome biker was tall.
 
Back in front of the fire,
has anyone heard the mistle thrush?

 
~