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