It is spring again
I see my father setting forth into the expanse of our back garden
Looking defiantly at all the jobs to do;
Taking stock of the endless jobs confronting him
He plunges the fork and turns the clay
And as the earth is thrown out before his feet
The robin on the wall flits down and takes up her stance
Watching the upturned clay with a furtive hunting menace
The clay is wet , and stubborn from the wrath of winter
But it turns in thick sods as a sulking lover yields to tender
Overtures form her long spurned companion.
The season’s clock has started as if after some months dormant.
The pendulum in our grandfather clock in the hall starts to tick again,
And my father stands bent in rapt attention
Beside the clock to check and get its heartbeat right
And with patient and laborious adjustments with cardboard beneath its legs ; Tick and Tock at last equilbrate to his triumphant - Ahaa!! and
He moves the hands forward to the hour and the strident chime of the bell
Comes with a clicking churning move of cogs and wheels and spools ;
And we too are awakened to his endless resolve .
The heart of the soil is awakening too to the subtle warmth
Of the breath of Spring wafting on the clay.
It is time again to breathe the sweetening nurture from the skies
Time to relent , and be wooed gently by lilting the song
Of the south West Wind , blowing in from Aran and the hills of Clare.
It is time ; time to turn the sods of wrath
To breathe in the freedom of the skies with their ever changing clouds
Time to relent , escape the grasp of unforgiven trivialities ,
That cling to us like the sodden clay.
Turn now ! the fork and let in the soothing light and wafting wind
And let the clock in your hall ring out the joy of the coming Spring