Spring

There’s a turn in the year,
we feel it in our bones -
that lengthening of light
casting shadows on the stones
a little longer.

It just happens one day,
we realise that spring is here;
an open flower bud
or catkin dancing by the mere.
We feel stronger.

Our survival does not depend
on tilling warming soil, planting seeds -
but still our face turns to the sun,
prehistoric, primeval human needs,
and we listen for birdsong.

Write your own poem:

Find a quiet spot, out of doors, maybe down by the river. Sit down and close your eyes. Let your other senses take over, especially sound. What is the water singing to you? Write down anything that comes to your mind, it doesn't have to rhyme. Are the birds chattering? Is the water restful or urgent? Write it all down, and then look at it the next day. What thoughts come to you, what remembrances? Write your thoughts down, and let your experience gladden you.