Sonnet

Here it is again, spring, "the renewal".

People have written about this before.

And the people who track the four seasons,

the hunters who know the weather has changed.

Still, rains happen: there are slow roots that make

progress; something has a hand in the earth

and turns it.  Clouds unknot the wind.  Bulbs blow.

Their threadbare minds gust outward, turn yellow

eyes to heaven.  It answers with the sun.

And the sun is a bulb, a mutual bomb.

The daffodils crack.  "Oh heavens!" they fret,

"Where's your terminus?"  The flowers are wan

travellers.  They unpack their cases.  All

they know, they are.  Renewal, rest.  Renewal.

by Emma Jones

* photo from Candlemas 2019, Betws-y-Coed, film on Pentax k1000