The nightingale gives way
to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms
overhead among the early watercolour
I hear a blue-*** (or robin) whistling it's tune
through the bulbs which rise bouncing
from the rippling sea of soil,
growing in seamless swathes beneath
the leaves silken pink.
The sun dapples through, reflecting
a rosy hue into the glass
dew drops fast melting
into the thirsty earth, and peeps
over the treetops before
gradually bowing his glinting head.
Old daffodils turn russet
in the golden day
as the clouds blush.
Another one of the first poems I have written. I just love spring!
— The End —