Spring Senses Poem by cahen thrips

here is the first spring you cannot see:
blushing blossom on cherry trees; honesty bowing
to southerly breeze; marsh marigold in primrose
frocks; blue of forget-me-knots; greening of the wheat;
a nesting sparrow with a feather in her beak.

here is the first spring you cannot hear:
distant bark of young muntjac deer; chiffchaffs
calling from leafy bowers; larks ecstatic with towered
height of skies and joy; sighs of barley as it whisker grows:
haunting whispers of love from courting turtle doves.

here is the first spring you cannot smell:
fields of rapeseed honeyed as it turns to yellow;
straw fume of fresh mown grass; early spume of mint;
breathe in the fragrance of lemon balm; ah death!
five months since you took your final breath.

here is the first spring you cannot taste:
earth in buttered new potatoes; salt
on your lips from spindrift; samphire;
young chives, oregano, dill and thyme;
no fruit of fig trees; no asparagus or lime.

here is the first spring you cannot touch:
weaving vines of hops; down feathers dropped
from a sparrow's beak; warm rain falling on
your cheeks; my face you used to cup in your hands:
not now - no when - nor soon - never again.

May 2023