Cooden Spring

Root, branch, bark in the waking spring,
opening into sunlight,
of the brighhting early reach

Cold chorus in morning,
rooftop frost,
freezing slumbering sea,
that feeds the wind, that bites the hands,
dogs barking on the beach.

Where swimmers shiver,
in early glimmers,
of what the summer could be.

Caught out by April,
the one eyed moon
smothered by tumbling skies.

Holding hopes of the heatwave,
halfbaked for a moment,
while the creeping clocks watch the time.

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