by Joanne Allen

Something in the act of being born

when all around can feel forlorn

the old maple tree making a new impression

starting out coppery and gold

the thrush coming in to drink at the pond

where I linger

seeing at least one child

for the first time in two months


Things I’ve never noticed before

that I’ll never take for granted again

the way she tilts her head,

bends to the dogs

the way they frolic through the fields

shiny black and tussled sandy heads just appearing

over the lush green of the grasses

the way we all go back together

the hardness of parting at a distance

the promise of a full embrace

in days to come.


 Joanne Allen   15th May 2020


© Copyright Joanne Allen - THACS Writers Online 2020