• Poems

    A poem for the first day of spring

    St Brigid’s Day, Woodside Road For Fiona Curran It’s just as well we didn’t bet our souls on it. This first day of pagan spring dawns white, the two-day fall blanking out pavements, children making hay of it with snowballs. One attempts, Sisyphus-style, to roll a boulder heavier than his bodyweight up the embankment. Mothers in tracksuits supervise from front-doors, fathers, scrapers in hand, track warily round cars. Sane people stay indoors, waiting for the equinox and the met office to make it official. But I brave the frost, looking for some augury or other, find it in a melted six inch square in Vi’s planter. I hunker down for…