There’s something in the mist this morning,
Alongside the hypnotic perfume of bluebell and the ritual chant of heron.
Sliding through the awakening canopy within shafts of this new day,
Reaming through the damp.
Conjuring the chaffinch call and midge dance into a heady brew
Of spring’s turning.
Creating the newborn green from soil dark forest floor.
Unseen voices trip their way through the deep blue,
Welcoming the magic.
Shot with crow caw and pheasant bluster,
Textured with summer’s promise and sycamore stare.
There’s something in the mist this morning.