Dorset Late Winter

Damp late winter days always conjure up
for me at least, visions of spring leaves,

beyond the woodsmoke,
and the urge for hearty meals,

hopeful footprints mark the meadow
trotting towards summer,

heralded perhaps by
the tightly curled kernel of a catkin

or the death wish of a surviving wasp
locked in his hamstone cave.

As the thaw hits pissy ruts,
where tractors churned old dung

sharp air gives way to something organic
a herald of warmer air

and it gets me looking up, for cleaner views
of Hardy hills disrobing in the mist.

Somewhere far off the forest waits
for its children to return

snapping old winter-ruined branches
making way for the nimble and the new.