Foretaste of spring

Imbolc has turned the weather round, chased clouds and cold, and the woods around the mere are full of silvery light.

No hunting in these woods and the ground is covered in tracks and prints, of boar, badger, deer, fox and pheasant, their leavings and bones. Interesting smells distract the dogs, and walking is more like excavating. Bix is unnerved by the ‘things’ he can’t see and hangs back. Redmond just wants to get into the water. Difficult.

Still water reflects a clear sky.

The vegetation ahead is too dense for us to walk the length of the mere, and the woods along the stream are full of fallen trees and bramble traps.

Bix sees monsters everywhere

At home, the honeysuckle bush is drawing the bees, and lizards are dropping off the house walls, as if they’re not used to being out in the sun again.

February painted in Brigid’s colours

Such a little thing,
a day that opens
like the scented mouth
of honeysuckle blossom,

of light that spills
into scrapes and hollows,
hoof and paw prints,

glints on the metallic ribbons
of orchid leaves,
rising like dragons’ teeth,

writing on whispering paper
leaves, the deed of ownership
of this scrap of earth.