A Year
- Kate Clarke
- Mar 19, 2021
- 1 min read
Updated: Nov 14, 2022
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

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