Damp again

The first skeins of geese went over yesterday (or the first I've seen anyway) and reminded me of what the Vikings called the whale-road north... Today, after ten days of clear, dry weather on the back of an endlessly drying east wind, it is damp once again, and this poem is the result of the change in the weather.

I'm not sure about it, and if it weren't for my National Poetry Writing Month commitment, it is the kind of poem I would usually consider a fragile seedling, which I'd put in the 'nursery' folder to see if it will grow into something I like over time. But as I have made a poem-a-day commitment,  in the spirit of being open about what actually comes down the pen, here it is.

Rain pause over, spring resumes

The stick that was white is wet again.

Birch buds bursting

look like a struggle

but damp earth

smells as if it will ease them.

Are the willows sorry for the primroses?

No. Nor are the primroses

as lonely as they seem.

Nothing is forlorn.

This is just how it is now

while the air is still

as thin as birdsong

and the pull of the whale-road north

is strong enough

to wind the wind-skeins up again.