Spring feels like summer even though
Playful breezes stir the tall green grass
Rich red soil feels warm beneath bare feet
Irises hidden in the forest bloom unnoticed
Never do the birds more sweetly sing
G**oodbye to ice-cold winter

The air might feel cold,
but I do not care,
and as a chilly wind
blows through my hair,
I listen to the birds
that sing with great flair.

The seasons are changing,
the cold will pass soon:
that makes me happy
and over the moon.
O,  this happiness inside,
I could almost croon.

Days are more often
filled with the sun.
Warmth slowly follows,
but when the cold is done
none of that will matter
as Spring will have won.

Weathered, waxy layer in wind and rain,
Droplets detour, dividing on the earthy ground.
Autumn peaks - the skeletal structure begins to emerge;
Crispy, frail webs of skin become brittle and break.

Released from the branchy cage,
The voyage begins with ebb and flow,
Rocking like a pendulum -
Momentum builds ceaselessly.

Time passes, and sand seeps
Through the hourglass,
Like droplets of glassy tears,
Shattering. Salty pools percolate
Through linen sheets.

Wind whittles aimlessly through
A boulevard of undergrowth.
The robin settles and observes,
Twittering sweet hymns
Amongst the wooden cathedrals.

A new leaf is turned.
The renaissance of Autumn awaits another year.

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.