The summer will come, dressed in uncertainty,
sometimes receiving applause from plummeting showers on deep puddles;
and the sun, brazen and eager, will turn coy and restless.
With splashes of colours, there will be an urgency in gardens and fields.
Then, beneath ominous, Turner skies, pale leaves will drop softly
from shivering trees, and candyfloss blobs will collect and cover
autumn browns and slumbering frogs.
Cars may stand shrouded and silent for days, or weeks,
as post boxes flaunt white caps and rooftops disappear.
Paths from doorways will get shovelled and brushed,
and lumpy, white forms with coal-black eyes will appear by front windows,
standing doggedly until, tired, they slump and sprawl.
After a forever of whiteness,
interrupted by coloured lights, rituals and Christmas antics,
midnight toasting with mismatched glasses,
and scraps of dreams probing sleep,
the snows will vanish.
The gentle, bright rage of spring will stir the earth
and song thrushes, with clutches of twigs, will hurry about
garden fences and shrubs, renewing performances of other years.