An Ode To Spring Poem by Mark Heathcote

Look how the gardener hates those weeds!
as soon as the wren makes her nest
It's then that his squeaky wheelbarrow impedes
with the forked-out green Medusa's headdress.

But look here in the meadow of idle hands,
a yellow chaffinch and a cluster of bluebells
by tall oaks, here Primrose edge of woodlands
clouds pass over in shades of dapple pastels.

Cosy - silence is broken by half-a-dozen ravens-
in the horse chestnuts waving ship-like masks,
Spring opens a drying pine cone as lupines
purple-like spruce trees opening flowery basques.

Glistening fish's abdomens are swollen like pears.
At the first taste of spring, a sheet web spider?
Makes her own, perennial-hammocks-snare—
to sew up her first petal-winged fibres.

Here to a brown hare crouching, dying in numbers
once a common sight, running at 35 mph—
in male dominance, but now on one's uppers
their circles of competition to attain plagued.

Sorry, I couldn't make it more cheerful.
But that is the nature of nature, after all.