Spring Walk
Bare branches inked
against a pale sky.
Hawk hovers,
then passes over me.
Under the trees,
sounds of birdsong,
earth-smells of leafmould;
rotting remains of
last year’s life
nurturing new generations.
White chalk crumbles
over smooth grey flint,
prized by our ancesters.
Everything is held
in potential.
Linda Rushby 5 April 2023