For dverse

These mornings

These mornings heavy with rain,
drops quivering on grass stalks,
where wings flutter quiet as feathers,
I listen for the spring

clamour in running water
and the chant of chickens,
dog-bark at windblown scents
of fox and deer.

Listen, the oaks are singing,
leaves not ready to fall, give up
their root and anchor to young buds,
burnish-bursting where chaffinches peck.

These mornings, I listen where the thrush
pours water music above the stream,
and in the bird quiet in the deep earth
where my feet tread,

I hear the root and branch seething,
soft seep of worm galleries,
and the piping voices of sprouting seeds.
Spring-bubbling source of earth magic.