The Other June

June is full of unexpected flowers –
We shouldn’t be surprised at such,
We know these buds exist in theory,
But we never think of them that much.
I don’t mean roses or hydrangeas,
Where the blooms are solely why they’re bought –
But rather in the offhand places
Where the flowers are an afterthought –
The lively sprays of privet blossom, say,
Or potato’s multi-coloured spawn,
Or dead-nettles with snakeheads raised,
And teasing frills of clover on the lawn.
For ev’ry showy thug like bindweed,
There’s small-and-many thyme and poison ivy –
Where oxeyes lord it over the daisies,
The plantain spikes are defiantly lively.
A shock of yellow in the verges,
Wastelands looking oddly brisk and bright,
And brambles showing their softer side,
While shy little sundews and chickweeds fleck with white.
They don’t do it for us of course,
These unassuming emissaries –
And we’ll forget, then be surprised again
By the Autumn’s unexpected berries.

The First Bounce of Spring

Who would have thought it, a glorious moment in March !
The sun arrives early to soften the lingering starch.
Our sensible shoes might be slackened, though hardly unlaced –
And coats are unbuttoned – but still being worn, just in case.
For this is, we know, but a splinter
In the long flank of Winter.

What should we call it – an Indian summer in March ?
The trees are caught napping, the indolent rowan and larch.
Our Febru’ry faces are cautiously risking a smile.
But still we shall carry umbrellas –  it’s only a trial !
For this is, we know, but a glinter
Before the blackthorn Winter.