The tall scarlet of crested hens
fanfares through hawthorn,
struts among verdant twigs
plump with the infant year.
April is freeing story upon story
from a frosted jar.
Now that winter’s gales are spent
the air repairs itself, breathes
jonquil scent, drenched loam.
At moonrise star particles glint
in the bent horns of trees,
barks of foxes charge the night.
Tulips have darkened their cups
and the grass blazes silver
as the storyteller begins:
Perhaps she came from beyond the ice
where colours pour down the night sky.
We only know that one day she was here…