SPRING

Atop the bungalow, stopped dead, a cauliflower,

The swallow has returned, your gaze follows its dart,

The first buds pop with metal-beating power,

There’ll be manure to wheel, I know it off by heart.

Above, the purring sky, still tucked up, snuffled, dozing,

It’s due to brighten up, a glorious day will pass,

Like the far whistling train, whose distance blows imposing

As silver droplets come, tapping the window glass.

Pitched tight around the goal, the little lads are busy,

In its new wicker nest the cauliflower rests easy,

Come, sun of France, with your light lend a hand.

Aching to leave, I’m flinging wide the door,

I’d fly, were this the Riviera shore,

Then all my toil would turn to silver sand.