Winter gives way to Spring,
life returns anew to the land,
and so the ages pass.

Deep within the Greenwood
a figure stirs beneath the mossy bole
of a venerable holly tree.

Melting ice falls glittering
from a fold of velvet.
A thin wind whispers in the whins.

Startled, a song-thrush flits wildly
over ragged brambles,
the dawn sun gleaming in his wide, black eyes.

It is time, once again,
for someone to re-awaken
the sleeping snowdrops.