Spring brings the smell of fresh,
Newly cut shrubberies with neatened corners,
Dusty brick surrounds your edge,
To keep you warm through winter.
Like a mother’s woollen jumper,
Protected from the British storm;
September through to March.
Yet April sings a new song,
Of hope; a blooming start.
Maybe this will be the year,
For something new to grow.
Perhaps a mustard seed?
Could grow through the sky
And provide some shelter,
For a poet passing by.