Yellow is the colour of resurrection,
Daffodils re-emerging along verges, under hedgerows,
Defying sneaky last blows of winter, cold as cynicism,
And a late insurgency of snows.
The year has just leapt on an hour towards summer
And the weighting stone’s been rolled from the lid of the compost bin,
The inside of which is alive with worms turning
Dead parings into new life when dug in.
Plots begin to be cultivated, earth impregnated with seed,
Lawns are being mown, then scarified after a fashion,
And there’s no mistaking the gardener in his passion.