April has quietly set her traps
laced my path with snags and hooks;
the heat and damp rises in my old crying field
the sunlight slants on the estuary
and it's a shivering cymbal, pitted, brassy,
and I can't get past that line, suddenly
in Carrickfergus or Walk With Me
Your tulips have sprung in our scruffy yard
a ragged mop of stalks and leaves for now
But soon the purple will show
Photo: Terry Clarke
Comments