single word carved on an old fence
has rotted through and collapsed
hillside beyond with a sense of place
clambers over and through
spring water source is running again
frogs and frogspawn, throated chorus
timber is logged and stacked
top dressed with mulch
seaweed enriched soil improver
there is a biting cold easterly wind
no regular pattern to the days
brash wood and cuttings
left from damaged and fallen trees
grass is given a quick once over
more new shoots and dashes of colour
a few bright sparks of gorse
(found poem redacted from Little Sparta spring newsletter)