The Road to Spring

Breath turns to vapour, bushes burn with frost,
Crystal puddles punctuating the trail,
On which the sun’s battles are frankly lost,
As noon-day sees its thawing vigour fail.
Clear crisp cleansing cold, making safe the ground,
For dormant life hid in the seeming tomb,
What has been lost shall soon enough be found,
This icy graveyard is in fact a womb.
Winter’s work is but to build up the spring,
To save up towards the impending flower,
To gestate the soon budding, teeming thing,
In expectation of its public hour.
What looks so fully fallen into sleep,
Is just new birth growing within the deep.

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