Cannot stop the bushes having their way,
Leafing up in the morning gloom
Like a green mist drifting in coil and plume.
All
winter, the shrubs with branches bare
Have
rattled in the thumping ice-stark air,Now, with nosegays of salad-green,
They are leafing up in a rain-crisp sheen.
Be
it the hawthorn with its blood-snag spines
Or
the osier willow in fingering lines,Mintily-tinted where insects will tup,
Springward, the bushes are leafing up.
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©
March 2015