Spring, It Is A lie.

Press the title for the whole post. 🧑

A snapshot of my garden 6th April.

Watch them unfurl in the fragileility of spring,
Opening our eyes allowing us to dream.
Sun scoots low to expose streaked windows
and stained tablecloths that soap failled to clean.
Dust motes dance without rythm or beat,
As the light stings our eyes and warms our feet.
lettuce and sweatpeas sprout in soil filled pots,
With dafdodills normality comes in restless spots.
But do not be fooled enough to blink or sigh,
For Jack with pointy fingers and lazer eyes
Sends snapping frosts throughout night skies.
He burns lime green leaves until

they are as as black as Magpies eyes

Stomps on plants with leadend boots.

Its plan is clear to freeze the shoots.
Now our gardens spoilled
spring hadn’t sprung
So we begin again

with steaming pile

Of Pony
Dung.

Forget-me-not.

Which is your favourite season and why ? Let me know in a comment

22 thoughts on “Spring, It Is A lie.

  1. Lovely poem. For me it’s fall, crispy winds, falling leaves, rust and yellow green green fields wild flowers and skunks and things. Nippley beach walks, if not quarantined.
    The smell of mushrooms and wood. I could go on,, don’t think that I should.

    Liked by 1 person

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