Tomorrow is the start of spring in my part of the world.
I would like to share two poems that herald the arrival of my favourite season. One is my own, and one is by the English poet Philip Larkin.
Both hold sadness and hope in equal measure. Nothing is either this, or that. Even the most wonderful beginning holds an ending. These poems reflect that.
My poem is called “Tomorrow”.
Even the laundry
with its sleepy smell of crisping linen
is an ode to what is over;
The washing machine’s whirr and thump no longer the busy symphony
of domestic comfort,
but of what one must do
to get through.
A benign legion of bees rejoice and hum and sup,
drowsy and blissful,
at the blossom tree that has transformed my winter windows
to an erotic riot of pink and tui.
Wings crack and swish, branches swoop and shake.
My cat presses his face, hot and earthy from the sun, to mine.
He chirps, his heart a bird.
It will be spring tomorrow.
THE TREES, by Philip Larkin
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.