It was as if
someone only had to say
Abracadabra
to set alight
the chestnut
candelabra.

Bloom and blossom
everywhere, on furze,
on Queen Anne's lace.
A breeze blew
cherry snows
on the common place.

Weeds on walls;
the long grass
of the long acre:
the elderberry bushes
blazing thanks
to their maker.

Loud leaves of
southside trees,
the reticent buds of ash
the reach of undergrowth
were voices, voices,
woods' panache.

Cub foxes.
Pheasants galvanised
themselves to sing.
The white thorn flowers
were the light infantry
of Spring

marching down the headlands.
A new flock flowed
through a breach,
a makeshift gate.
And this is heaven:
sunrise through a copper beech.