Mole

SPRING. IS. HERE. 

 

Mole

 

On the first day, when the sleepy clouds of dawn

Roll back their covers and gaze out

Over fields and tracks

Houses and hedgerows

 

In Spring, when they first invite the Sun round for lunch

And as our human clocks metronomically tick

Into double digit

The concrete begins to warm

 

Imperceptibly at first

And then faster, as the sky gets bluer

And the Suntrain pulls closer

It, well, it’s glorious

 

This is when I feel like mole

Not just hidden and short-sighted

But that an adventure involving water

Greenery and some furry companions would not go amiss

 

More, still, there is something heartwarmingly English about that scene

Not hashed out in debates over tolerance and contentious history

But simply in our natural landscape, its rolling hills and towpaths

Rivrbanks and hundred acre woods, a wind in the willows

 

So look for it today, in the crocuses in dappled sunlight

The shine in the ripples of babbling brook

In the chorus of birds, in the golden on green

In the eyes of skyward gazers both human and not

 

For the Sun has arrived, John Barleycorn is on the wax

Feet will come slowly out of doors

And when all is said and done

Spring, has sprung.

 

Sunned sloth out. 

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