by Marie Cadden
In the ditches things are poking,
pulsing through dirt.
or bulging from twig at burst-point
To stretch towards the great mama.
In the glow of her pleasure
Crocus gorse buttercup daffodil primrose
gleam yellow, calling us out
The garden seat,
jackets open, hair free,
faces bare for a blessing.
after the dark doubts of winter
to trust in suckled innocence
reborn in pale sunshine.