An Urban Spring

A pale February sun brushes bulbs on city balconies.

Sap surges in grey urban spaces;

In gutters close to drains, weeds cling fast to perilous 

                                                              places.

In lost gardens of old mattresses, broken chairs and urban trash,

an early snowdrop battles through.

On muddy building plots stray daffodils sound yellow trumpets, 

Last Post for a floral army lost in trenches dug for luxury flats.

Under sweaty railway arches, moss clings obstinately, out of view.

Through steamy subway windows, passengers can just distinguish

 clumps of grass, green hair, hanging from secret crevices,

 blown by every subterranean wind that whistles past.

Old cherry trees, tentacles reaching down through cracks

in pavements, yards and squares of broken tarmac,

leaning arthritic limbs at crazy angles, still feel a touch of sun,

enough for one last Spring.

In city No Man’s Lands, where muddy paths cross empty lots,

clumps of gilded celandine claim untrodden, sheltered spots.

Along an old parade of shops, in fissures of broken sills,

a lonely dandelion, an eastern potentate, a golden king,

looks proudly down on grimy streets and endless queues.

In suburbs, hawthorn hedges break out in a rash of white confetti,

a scent, a passing whiff of nicotine, promises drug-like bliss.

Commuter trains pull in and out of stations, almost crushing

fluttering ferns, vintage emeralds, set in crumbling brickwork,

stoically facing daily death.

On green embankments, lakes of bluebells nod and bow,

in homage to the brash Express imperiously rushing past.

Hedge Parsley’s dainty fretwork pokes through rusty mesh

guarding park playgrounds, neglected basketball courts.

On flat roofs the eco gardens: grass, trees, plants of many sorts,

with budding curiosity bend over, as if to berate

the faceless, morning crowds from New York state! 

Resurrection

The winter garden is dead. Frost’s cold fingers strangle the last signs of life. Dry, black stems pierce the pale rays of winter sunlight. Brown skeletal leaves of bracken sink into the sodden earth. Summer’s corpse is finally laid out as darkness creeps over the frozen grass.

Slowly, the moment of resurrection approaches; the shattered mirror reforms. A snowdrop

fights its way through the frozen earth. On bare Magnolia branches, tiny buds begin to form.

Ancient apple trees are thinking about living through one more Spring. The intertwining brown stems of the wisteria move in their deep winter sleep. Now the dark yew, which never surrenders, even to winter’s most barbaric assault, is dreaming of its five hundredth summer. The first blossom drifts over the grass. A blackbird sings from a willow bough!