The primroses have never been better —
and though we say this every year
each year it’s true. This month,
closer to them, under skies
released from chains of vapour trails, they gleam
sharp in an unexpected frost,
soften to creamy silk by afternoon,
then hold a harder light to evening.
Every year this new awakening —
dark holly’s polished leaves,
a hawthorn’s cheeky brilliant green,
the nearly-bursting buds crowding the cherry
and sunlight’s magnificent indifference.
D. A. Prince
If you have any thoughts on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to hear them.