Springtime, you lover of country lanes
whose five bar gates through bulging
hawthorn of creamy blossom lead.
To verdant pasture\'s rejoice of springing
newborn lamb and nervous calf\'s enquiry.
A lonely bumble bee loiters over surprise
of late daffodil by the old grey lock
where young boys netted and ready wield
jars of frogspawn bounty and glee.
Early duckling parade with proud mum
through raining of blossom upon the breeze.
And now into the cool of woodland glimmer
where subdued carpet of wildest garlic
welcomes bluebell lush - there is magic here.
Tip-toe through and out onto agriculture\'s heartland,
plain, a land of muck spread nostrils taint
laboured and drilled to feed our land a plenty
Homeward then over style by lane side trickling ditch
bathed in the glory of cuckoo flower delight
a tease for orange tip butterfly\'s lilt.
All things i shall miss over this springtime of viral restraint.
Though yet I dream, recollect where, springtimes past were spent.
Youth of springtime manhood came and flowered in the light.
Forward looking, join me all, for next year - a summer\'s fete.