May arrived on a murmur of bees
and distant mowers. The wordless rains
of night had carried Spring away
and a pungency of privet
now frames the day, stinky-sweet snow
bending to a bramble embrace.
There is no purpose in such a day.
It dozes. It dreams beyond its fences
into fields of the fresh-turned future.
Stephen Brooke ©2013
A bit of verse, just to prove I'm not totally vegetating here...