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Springtime rush

Cold springs combine to flush the hill and meadow far below,

Sharp water cast o’er edges, low sunshine, melting snow,

Brisk winds that blow across the tops, incline the daffodil,

As snowdrops fade, bluebells parade, the fields are yet to fill.

Cascading turmoil, springtime rush, a torrent once a brook,

Nature’s bounty, heaven’s spill, the beck is in full flood.

Calloused hands, exhausted pores, so little time to sleep,

Fields to plough, livestock to feed, no rest for man and beast.


© Joseph G Dawson