February fills dikes, overflows fields
and streams, turns paths to slippery ooze.
Petulant winds crease the surface of the lake
and agitate the fast flowing river.
A plague on your daffodils, Mr Wordsworth.
Granted, daffodils look very fine - harbinger of spring and such,
But they just stand about admiring themselves
or head-tossing and fluttering in a freezing gale,
This is the tree where you carved your name
at the junction of three woodland pathways,
hoping to be part of its long living.
Setting out in the morning,
Under a bright winter sky,
Sunshine filters through bare branches,
casting rich pools of golden light.
ind over water,
stream over stone.
Trees are shivering
in gusty cornfields
- green over liquid gold.
'If' is a word
I often choose;
A golden key
I often use.
In the cool of the evening
a fox lies here in the long grass
under the blossoming apple trees.
He keeps guard as the stars
From the east, grey clouds
Scout the sky, occupy the horizon.
Barrages of hail and rain
Spring, this term,
Is quite up to the standard required by the Board,
Notwithstanding occasional periods of non-attendance.
Has been awarded a pass in the following: -