An equinox happened the other day
The earth was tilted just the right way
Night, hours and days were almost the same
but not quite precisely
Now there's a game
Why does it happen? I want to ask
but discovering why is quite a task
I'm not an astronomer, to know these things
I just know they happen in winters and springs
and as the world spins on its merry round
there'll be another this autumn, I'll be bound!

Sounds like a song
from a nineteen sixties
kitchen sink movie
It all depends
on what you mean by "it"
The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
said: "The answer is forty two"
but
Forty two what?
Now there's a question

The weather forecast for today
said mist would later clear away
and afternoon be bright.
So far the earth is sombre, drear,
no hint of sunshine to appear
before again it's night.
The tapestry of twigs and branches
when the breeze arises, dances
stitched across the sky.
I remember when the green
sleek new leaves could well be seen
by any passer-by.
The birds still sing although no rays
of sunshine cheer their wintry days.
They're pairing up in time
by end of January's freezing weight
to reach mid-February's sacred date,
that of Saint Valentine.

Valentine’s Day

As a rule
Valentine’s day passes me by
unnoticed
but
this year
in the middle of lockdown
a friend’s delayed gift
of Scilly Isles Narcissi
arrived just in time
to fragrance my room
with their sweet heady scent
and look up at me
with their tiny innocent faces
A thoughtful friend
sent me a Valentines
full of good wishes
and if that weren’t enough
I was treated to a delicious afternoon tea
and a posy of daffodils

Valentines come in many ways

What Is a poem?
My dictionary gives
“a composition arranged in lines
usually (it says)
with a particular rhythm
and sometimes
with rhymes”
a flight of fancy
a dirge
an ode
a sonnet
a villanelle
even a code
a pulse of romance
a moan of despair
a glory of colour
of sound in thin air
a vision
a grumble
a song
an insurrection
jubilation
frustration
at lack of direction
In short it would seem
one has to take care
as a poem may happen
anytime
anywhere

The arts and crafts house is a labour of love  
No plastic is found here
but deftly placed splinters of differing woods
carefully entwined
trace the outer line of the year
in which each piece was made

Splinters of plastic
pierce outer skin of the year
we labour to save