It seems the crocus buds have split,
The blackbird's regal fencepost,
Quivers in the gusting of night time,
Roosting departed occupant dream,
I can hear a gentle forest stream,
A border, dialect of green and tree,
Some distant formal horsefield,
In the fog on the hill, the white mare,
Sits with the magpies, symbolic,
Like all things yet so vibrant,
Significant in the chromatic being,
And call, no need for counting,
The ears detect the second,
And a third further yet,
But can it be said, can you realise the,
Forgotten buds of the crocus,
Their red and yellow bitten by the frost.
Rowan Blair Colver