Poets’ Corner Folkestone were at The Troubador last Saturday, celebrating Spring – many poems by other writers – Blake, Wordsworth, Larkin, Hopkins, Rumi – but also by ourselves. This was my contribution.
There’s nothing quite like the beginning of Spring
It brings to an end the wearisome waiting;
Almost the same as becoming sixteen
With a spring in your step as life truly begins.
More natural though the bound in your pulse
As you gaze at the sunset over Dungeness
Its pale light shimmering the sea, the gulls
Dancing, silhouettes that soar and plunge,
Than the image over which you fussed
As you moved away, further – o much much
Further than Dungeness; further than love
Could carry you or reach you- ’twas ever thus
At sweet sixteen, sweet spring, the enchanted light
That holds in suspense the sea, youth’s first flight,
Hope, all things that grow, bring the white
Cherry blossom, equinox, the days, magical nights.
There’s nothing like spring but last spring, and the next.
The sun completes its setting, the sea repents,
Becomes familiar again; lusty lads and wenches
Drink on the beach; look out for the bounty of shipwrecks