everyone is singing
willow warbler, chiff chaff,
and even the cuckoo too.
Hares are running in the April showers,
the brook churns rounded stones
down-hill, shafts of sunlight
crafting the green-grass view
late daffodils bent by an Easter snow.
Deep clouds obscure the moon,
it’s chilly yet in the old hills
and hearth light glows warmly in the coals,
lamplight falling in yellow pools
the open book mirrors words in silence.