Crocus buds come up out of winter,
whiteyellowpurple. Then night arrives,
black as a cab, its putter and gleam.
Courage,’ say the pub windows: inside
by the fire, old friends ask ‘have I changed?’ –
who want to hear Yes, who want to hear No.
The way we say Home, meaning here or there,
it’s a well-lit word, it’s open all hours,
but when we go home and turn out the light
we dream of crocuses opening.