Spring is March wind - mad, rollicking, unsettling trees and men; is confident bright air, hallowing office blocks even,
is the cracked earth's inability to hold longer from smiling; is tiny crocus flags unfurled behind the damp paling;
is what blows all poems out the window, saying, start afresh; is when I wake from a dream, knowing I shall sleep again.
Spring is an influx of birth making death easy. And I sing the Spring as others shall when I no longer assay, being bone without shadow in the brown earth.
Philip Cook
8th March 1920 – 28th March 2008
