April

A chill is blowing across the land. 

Sharp fingers scrabbling, searching across the corduroy fields.

A sudden flood of honey light, spills onto copper curtains of leaves, that whirl and flare in hyper contrast, against the slate blue storm sky. 

A false warming for the beard of the old hedge man, threaded through with scarlet studs. 

I step over the bare root bones, of the eager to slumber giants, high above, still casting twig and leaf irritations tumbling. 

Their voices rise and fall, rushing to share the whispers from the wind.