It’s Time


The jasmine bush absorbs a crystal sky

not seen for months. The sodden mess of leaves

that clogged the path all winter now is dry

and ready to be swept. There’s something sharp

about the sunlight blinds the eye this morning –

stems have straightened up, the wheelie bin

has taken on a strange new lustre.

This the first day he has shone in earnest,

edging over boundary walls and hedges

to inspect our winter graveyards. Days

of early dark and icy outside taps

are numbered. When I creak the shed door open,

shears and spade blink in the corner: come,

the world must be newmade. It’s time.