It is Spring and the young
Are all falling in love.
It is Spring and the tongue
Of the poet is free.
Now Winter is shut
Like a snake in a box
With the shriek of the owl
And the yelp of the fox.
Now Winter withdraws
To his palace of bones,
With a clanging of doors
And a grinding of stones.
And Spring is the kiss
That awakes us again,
In the softness of leaves
And the promise of rain.
So I sing like a bird
At the top of the tree,
The book of the word
And the turn of the key.
I sing like a bird
In the womb of the wood,
The flight of the dark
And the triumph of good.
I sing like a bird,
As the tongue finds its groove
The book of the word
And the power of love.

Articles by John Whitworth

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