Creatures of the Season

  Spring. The scent of freesias in a mantelpiece vase. Light. The morning calling me outdoors to rake, to sweep, to move plants, to water. To drink a cup of tea outside, to look for leaf buds on a tree, to hang out the washing before breakfast. The season like a child full of enthusiasm, who wants to take me by the hand and show me her treasures. Windows open, doors open, the air like song. Out of our long indoors, our hibernation of books and cocoa and work and screens and sleep, hours of dreaming, chilled, we wake again to this return. A child waits to meet us, family expanding beyond our walls, the child itself expansive, claiming names.

Like an animal emerging from winter-hollow, we look to see how things have changed. I am famine lean and greedy. Green hits the back of my eye, feast-colour.