Awakening. A poem by John McGrath

Winter fights a futile rear-guard action
From the woods, where even now the buds
of oak and sycamore defy the icy breeze.

Primroses huddle in hedgerows
and a butter-dish of daffodils
adorns the orchard’s dappled edge.

The dog sleeps in a warm sunbeam
dreaming of long walks and Summer days.
My eyes scan the sky, searching for swallows.