Sue Finch

BREATHING THE SCENTED AIR

This morning a chorus from herring gulls welcomed in the morning, and the wind is swirling and mixing the scents of flowers and green.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a person holding a drink and a plate of food. I say it is me enjoying a sit down in a café at Chester Zoo with a drink and a doughnut after visiting a range of animals including a gorgeous tapir that seemed pleased that I told it that I thought it was gorgeous.

The first of March brought sunshine and gifted the perfect day to walk round The Great Orme in Llandudno. There were plenty of fresh smells to delight the senses for my sister and I. After the foodie smells from the doughnuts and onions on the pier, we had the herby scent of grass and gorse mingling with the fresh sea air as we headed round the coastal edge. There was a moment of pure contrast when a strong smell of fish puffed up from the cove below us where we had stopped to watch the seals swimming in the water. We moved along a little when this one hit our noses! This was the first time we have walked whilst the tide has been in and covered the area of beach that we usually watch the seals on. It was lovely to see them swimming in pairs and curving their bodies in the water as well as the familiar sight of curious heads bobbed up through the waves.

My sister, Katie, said that when she comes to Wales she enjoys the fact that she experiences an extended range of smells. She reports that for her the scents in Kent often fall into the following four distinct categories:

Normal
Cold
Fresh
Fumy

She also reports that the water in St Winefride’s Well is cold, and well worth taking a paddle in. This was one of the highlights of her trip up this time and as well as drinking some well water she has a small bottle to take home with her. We are saving the full immersion experience for when the weather is a little warmer. It’s always good to have another trip to look forward to and although we know the water is unlikely to be much higher in temperature we will at least be coming out into warmer air.

Here’s to all the scents that are noticed and enjoyed this week, and here’s a seal poem I once wrote after watching for seals at The Little Orme…

SEAL AT ANGEL BAY

She sits on the cliff watching the water.

He is a rounded head buoyant in the centre.

Something on the air tumbled by the wind

interrupts him;

eyes and nostrils flick open

revealing stone-black depths.

Lines of sunlight silver the waves

diminishing her thoughts

of the iodine seaweed smell,

that mingling of fish and brine

that says he hunts the raw.

He is surveying the surface nonchalantly.

Soon he will be gone again;

under the waves

for long stitched-together minutes.

Tight solid fat turns to glistening grey.

She too stirs, as he curves into the thick water.

I SEE BLUE SKY

This morning the air holds the scent of green and unfurling. The birds are well awake when I step outside and are singing to each other of a new day to be in, seemingly unbothered by the wind.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a tree with no leaves. I say it is blue sky framing the branches of a tree, and that it delighted my heart to be walking under it.

After last weekend’s yarn show I set myself a catching up kind of a week. The kind where sparkly conversations with good friends featured amongst time to tackle admin type things and time to see if the poems that wait patiently in the draft folder are ready for polishing. The kind of week without a particular routine which allowed for resting and for seizing the moment when there was a gap in the rain to take a daily stroll.

It was good to get out for daily walks again after having recently had to wait for my cough to diminish. I felt my body easing its way back in to striding out and being glad for being out in the fresh air. I also realised how much I had missed listening to music for that dedicated segment of the day. My soul shines more fully when the right sounds are in the day. The country road route is currently muddy and wet, but I like its familiarity as I get back into the swing of things. The fact that walking this route takes as long as listening to the album Personal History by Mary Chapin Carpenter is also rather splendid.

It was good to have a free and easy week, it felt rather like having a springboard to jump from on the journey towards spring. Spring is my favourite season, and I love the feeling of entering it with a sense of renewal and to revelling in the newness it offers. So many reminders of growth as the rhubarb stretches out new stems and the snowdrops flourish in the borders. Mixing these wonderful visuals in with the joy of lengthened days makes so much seem possible. It even had me venturing into the garden with a pair of secateurs to begin the big tidy up.

When I realised how much the darker days of winter affected me, I made conscious efforts to find joy within the season itself. Hot chocolate, walks wrapped up in cosy knitwear, dedicated writing time, blankets, candles and films all played their role. And possibly the most helpful of all was visualising myself on the path towards the change of season. Much like the country road right now that path has muddy patches, but there is joy in the meanders it takes and to the way it alters under frost and snow and changes of light. And when it’s dark under a new moon I remember it is a moment in time. A time to realise that standing in the darkness can be a thing of its own. A time to pause and breathe before the waxing begins again. A time of anticipation.

I thought I would be including a seasonal poem this week, but this one comes to mind for me instead because there seems to be something coming up for me about standing in the moment and noticing…

My thanks to Black Bough Poetry for featuring this poem on the Silver Branch series.

I’VE COME TO THE DESERT TO SEE THE SAND

I know now not to try

to count the grains.

There will always be those missed

because they’re lodged in fingernails

or hiding their casual grit

in peoples’ stomachs;

grazed first by molars, then swallowed

before they could be tongued and spat out.

And that softness when you let it fall

through your fingers isn’t real –

there is hardness there.

Even the colour diminishes

when you separate the grains.

You would need a microscope

to bring the beauty back.

Instead of counting

I stand

lift my head

just look at that sand.

NO KISS ME QUICK HAT

This morning the air is cold and brings the scent of bark. The birds are singing to welcome in the day, and one short daffodil holds its trumpet proudly aloft on the front lawn.

Alt text says this week’s photo is two women smiling for a selfie and indeed it is. It is Kath and I in a corridor in a hotel in Blackpool the night before a yarn show.

I have decided that Blackpool will be one of those places that is ‘snapshots in time’ for me, and this week I have added a cabaret singer in a hotel to my ‘album’. Staying away for Kath’s work saw us in a hotel in Blackpool for a couple of nights and on Friday night we wandered down for the onsite entertainment. We had not planned to do this and had no knowledge of anything other than there was going to be something happening. When we got there, we got the treat of a person singing a wonderful range of familiar and well-loved songs. It was great to be in the audience, to sing along, to throw out a few ‘woos’ as requested, and take time to just be in the moment. Kath even got to sing a line from Oom-Pah-Pah from ‘Oliver’ into the offered mic which got a round of applause.

There’s something uplifting about watching someone share their talents, and to enjoying the company of others and we went to bed later than planned with big smiles on our faces. There was bingo too, so I now have a blue bingo dabber at the ready just in case the opportunity for a game arises again soon.

In my snapshot album for this northern seaside town I now have this week’s cabaret set alongside my already gathered shots of a horse and cart ride and a rollercoaster experience. I have yet to buy a Kiss me Quick Hat or visit the tower which will please my sister as I think she wants us to visit there together one day. I am predicting that when this happens we will have chips. It seems I eat chips each time I go to Blackpool and this time we chanced upon a chip shop so good we went there twice!

Of course we did the main event which was the yarn show. It always delights me how many good conversations can be had in a hall that has been transformed by yarn vendors. I love hearing people’s stories and wisdom, and thoroughly enjoyed talking to a wonderful eighty-year-old who was making 2026 their year to learn brioche knitting. We talked about how good it feels to dress in what makes you feel good, the joy of choosing funky new glasses, and how fun it is to keep learning new things.

Here’s a poem of mine that was published in Atrium this week which fits well with thought of seaside roller coaster rides…

ELECTRIC FENCES MOCK ME

Humpback bridges laugh

when I drive over them.

It’s there in every first fizz

of a sparkler being lit.

It’s in the carbon dioxide

of burst bubbles

rising from the rim

in glasses of champagne.

Rollercoasters tell me

time and again

I could have ridden the moment.

And that cartoon rabbit

is always handing me dynamite bundles.

It’s almost still there

right next to the gearstick

when I find reverse in car parks

on cold winter nights.

That tingle that rose

all the way up to my belly

when my hand brushed your knee

and the talking stopped.

UNDER A BLANKET

This morning the air is simply cold. I am unable to detect anything other than cold and fresh. The fresh feels revitalising.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a person with a scarf behind her face. I say are you sure you want me to try to decipher that description. I also say it is me sitting on my chair with the blanket I have been spending a lot of time under lately. The blanket is a hexi-flat blanket made by my lovely wife from leftover yarn from a range of different projects. It holds the colours and memories of socks and blankets and shawls and jumpers. And this week it has helped me to be cosy and weighted during a week that featured a persistent sore throat and general feelings of yuckiness.

Progress measures this week have included three distinct stages of biscuit thoughts:

Actively disliking the thought of a biscuit.
Not wanting a biscuit, thank you.
Wanting a biscuit even though I wouldn’t be able to taste it.

It has felt important to listen to my body this week. On Tuesday it was firm and persistent in telling me to go back to bed because Tuesday was definitely having a false start. It often told me that the blanket was a very good idea. And later in the week came the wonderful sign that I was shaking off the virus when, even though I couldn’t taste my food, I knew that having chocolate wheaty things with cold soya milk was exactly what I wanted for my breakfast. I hadn’t bought any for months before thinking about them this week. My body was telling me what I needed or perhaps it was me channelling my nan who always said, “a little of what you fancy does you good”.

It’s been a long time since I have needed painkillers for six days in a row and I did a lot of talking to myself about this during the week. Lots of words about needing to be patient and wait for things to pass. Reminders to myself to look for the joy in those glimmering moments when putting the washing on felt doable, when different drinks soothed my sore throat in different ways, and giving myself a gentle cheer of encouragement when I had the desire to pick up a book and read.

In amongst the resting to recuperate elements of my week, I also had the wonderful joy of being invited to be a guest on a podcast. I loved so much about this… the being asked, the feeling of being recognised as having something to say, the thinking about what we might talk about and then the absolute joy of being in the moment of the conversation. I was able to hear myself think out loud and there was laughter, and those are truly lovely things to be gifted when you share time with someone.

This week I hope you find plenty of shiny things that bring you joy, and I offer you a poem for Valentine’s Day:

Three Lies and One Truth About a Banana

after Henry Normal

It’s a telephone and someone is ringing for you.

It’s a smile.

It’s a sad mouth.

I do not love bananas, but I do love you.

SNOW MOON AND GRATITUDE

This morning the air carries the smell of grass, and a thread of geese sound in the sky.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a heart shaped object on the ground. I say it is ‘Lovely’, a photograph I took of a discarded elastic band found in the gutter near the end of my road in February 2022.

February this year started with a full moon, and it felt good to turn the calendars over to welcome in a new month before taking time to take a stroll under the Snow Moon. Cloud meant I could not see it, but I knew it was up there somewhere and I sent it a gentle howl!

On the last day of January I took a walk before going to the last session of January Writing Hours with Kim Moore and Clare Shaw. It felt good to clear my head in anticipation of the final session and to give a gentle nod to all the hours I had spent in their zoom room with my writing. It was important to me to mark the ending of this particular daily practice and to think what I am taking forward with me. As well as writing poems in my own style (it’s always right in there!) I have enjoyed experimenting with different forms and approaches in response to the poems and prompts provided. I have some lovely drafts to work on over the coming month and that feels wonderfully celebratory as does the recognition that carving out this daily space has given me the chance to write poems that were definitely waiting inside me.

During the week I also had the opportunity to read my poems at two fabulous online events. First of all, I took ‘Flamingo’ with me to the Stephen Paul Wren’s Molecules Unlimited Online for the bird themed evening. It was an absolute delight to be immersed in David Morley’s work as well as the poems from the guest poets. All the poems opened up my thinking and had me even more in awe of birds and the natural world. And on Saturday evening I took ‘I Can’t Send You Back Can I? and ‘My Sister Went to Live on the Moon’ to Louise Longson’s Last Saturday event where there was a wonderful celebration for the sixth birthday of Mark Anthony Owen’s iamb.

Those readings had me taking a little look back at where I had come from…me the poet who used to only want to read short poems at events in case the nerves were too much and my breath ran out. Today I do a happy poet dance for the keeping going, my belief in the words. I chuckle at the fact that I recorded a poem in one take this month (a trimmed beginning so I could breathe and be ready, and a trimmed ending, but one take nonetheless). I hold huge gratitude for the encouragement from others to say the words, and for the uplifting support I have had which includes the editing out of ticking clocks, invitations to read in welcoming zoom rooms, poets who share their knowledge and skills. And I am glad for all the people who find that my words resonate with them and take time to say nice things about what I have set down in the world.

Here’s a poem in celebration of yesterday’s full moon. It was written for the waxing to full moon I drove under on the way to and from work in 2022.

SNOW MOON

For a moment this morning I called you

Tiger Moon.

You let the clouds stripe you before first light.

On my way home you hung low over fields

then winked at me in my rear-view mirror.

When I asked your real name

you whispered Snow Moon

and the storm winds blew wild.

HYDRATION, CONVERSATION, AND GOOD COMPANY

This morning the birds are singing in the day under a clouded sky. The air is fresh and gently perfumed. I breathe deeply to determine what might be coming from my soap and what is flora on the breeze.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a mug of hot chocolate and a photo of two men. I say it is a photo of a mug of hot chocolate next to a coaster, with a picture of me and Paddington Bear eating marmalade sandwiches on it, along with two carefully balanced biscuits. I also say it is a picture of the kind of comforting drink I have when I am sitting quietly on a cold day.

In the week that began with Brew Monday I found much joy in hydration, good company and conversation. From minty tea in a zoom room, to soup and fizzy orange in a pub, to tea and water in the company of a wonderful friend.

I have thoroughly enjoyed reflecting on where I have taken time for specific refreshments this week, and who I have been fortunate enough to share time with. I raise my pint glass of water to all of that and to remembering how my brain feels fully plugged in when I am well hydrated. It’s another of those self-care habits that I can sometimes be a bit slow about when the day starts, but the reminders I have given myself this week stand me in good stead for paying attention more fully right now.

I amused myself this week when I found myself emerging from the rabbit hole that was me reviewing my hair in my poetry videos. It had started as a dedicated period of time to tackle some admin jobs and before I knew it I was giving my hair ratings out of 10 in the videos. I am not sure how productive this was, but it definitely entertained me. Along the way I loved rediscovering the poem about the time I felt a sudden urge to get a haircut on holiday, and the way everything the following day suddenly became linked by things that cost seventy pence. It has not been published anywhere, but I do like the fact that it is a poem that sets down a moment in time.

Here’s the poem (You can click the title for the link to the YouTube video if you like such things.)

SEVENTY PENCE

Yesterday, I tipped the hairdresser

making her seven pounds into ten.

She stopped me from trying to outwalk

a floppy quiff on holiday;

she cut the risk of a halo cloud of flies

on walks through barley fields;

she reignited my confidence

to look in mirrors, talk to strangers,

linger in a strange shop with buttons,

bunting and washed-out old bottles.

My wife hinted that ten percent

would have been more usual.

But I couldn’t think what that would buy.

Then today, I gave seventy pence to a man

reading car park charges at a parking meter;

I found a 1979 edition of The Wolf

And The Seven Little Kids

that cost seventy pence back then.

I bought a postcard for my Dad at the art gallery

and took the opportunity to ask the woman who served me:

How much would you tip for a seven pound haircut?

About a pound, she said.

A NEW MOON BEFORE BREW MONDAY

This morning the birds are sending their calls into the cold air and for a moment I sense the scent of doughnuts before the air smells simply cold.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a group of mugs on a shelf. I say it is three cups representing the joy of choosing a cup that suits mood or drink.

The photo of three of my favourite cups came to mind because today can be thought of as Brew Monday. I first saw this particular name in a post from The Samaritans and I rather liked it. It can be considered a counter response to the term Blue Monday, a label once given to the third Monday in January in the Northern Hemisphere. I understand the blue label in relation to the weather being cold, spring seeming distant, new year’s resolutions perhaps being unrealistic and Christmas behind us, and I must say I like the reframing of this to Brew Monday. There’s joy to be had in taking time out for a hot drink with someone. For the listening, for the laughter, for the sharing of time.

Yesterday the moon was new which means today it begins to wax again. I too seem to have particular times of waxing and waning and have been thinking about the importance of knowing what makes a difference in such times. I am quite good at knowing what I need, but sometimes have to actually give myself a nudge to crack on and attend to it!

Sometimes in the morning I find my pyjamas are twisted around me in a strange manner and I have hit the snooze button more times than is helpful for getting up and getting on with the day. I can counteract this by switching off the alarm straight away and heading for the shower with my eyes still firmly closed, but sometimes I have to boss myself into action.

I am currently midway through Mental Health First Aid Training and this has prompted me to pay extra attention to the different things that are on my self-care list and to ensuring I give myself a nudge towards the one that I know will make a positive difference at a given time. After all self-care isn’t just needed on one particular Monday in January.

I always know it is helpful to me to have a walk, to clear my head, before joining a group of people in a zoom room, and this week I was giving myself a hard time for not having got up early enough to fit in my daily walk before the session started. I then realised I definitely had time to do at least a third of it so I did that instead. This also got me thinking about the different kinds of walking that are restorative to me. At one end of the continuum there’s the long leisurely walk for time out and pure walking joy, and at the other there’s the fast paced ‘I have a thought I need to walk with because there’s far too much thinking in my head’ walk. And perhaps one of the most important things to recognise is the huge space in between for all kinds of walks that can be useful and fun in all kinds of ways.

Today is apparently National Popcorn Day and since going to the cinema is on my self-care list, and I love popcorn it seems a good sign to indulge in both these things.

Here’s to listening to what we need to balance our days and to all those people who we lift our cups with along the way.

And here’s the poem that goes with my relationship with the snooze button…

EVERY DAY A NEW BEGINNING

And yet my eyes are stubborn

against the cold, dark morning.

I want only to hamster in bed.

Let the snow stay unimprinted with my footsteps.

THE MOON POEMS ARE WAXING LYRICAL

This morning a light wind tickles the leaves and drops of rain, held there temporarily, fall. No bird song yet in the faintly herbed air.

Alt Text says this week’s photo is a moon in the sky, and this makes me chuckle because I wondered if this might be the suggestion. I say it is actually a photograph of a balloon flying freely in the sky back in 2014, and when I photographed it I was loving its flight and its brief moonlike quality.

I did a happy poet dance this week in celebration of the publication of My Sister Went to Live on the Moon. It was wonderful to see this poem on the Atrium site and to remember the joy of writing it. It was one of those intense writing experiences where the thoughts come tumbling out like a waterfall into a fast flowing river. The kind that has me eager to see what has been created when I can finally pause the writing. The kind that when that pause comes I feel as though I have been a conduit for the words and their journey onto the page.

My recent reflection that this might be the year I howl at full moons rather than include them in my poetry isn’t quite accurate now! I have opened the year with a moon poem and followed this up by writing another where the moon is centre stage during Kim Moore and Clare Shaw’s January Writing Hours! The one currently in the notebook is a little rough round the edges, but I reckon some tender editing and a few visits to Poetry Corner will have it seeing the light of day.

And where did it begin, this fascination with the moon? I am not entirely sure, but I think Hey Diddle Diddle plays a role here. I can picture the illustration that accompanied the nursery rhyme from a childhood book. Such merriment and joy with the cow jumping, the moon smiling, and the dish and spoon gallivanting off. Perhaps it was that very crescent moon that I once spent time trying to carve into my bedroom wall. The visual memory and the tactile memory are both still in me as an adult. Or perhaps it was Aiken Drum! I can still feel the gleeful rhythm of this dancing in me, and I know if I see a ladle I am almost guaranteed to start to sing!

Wherever it began, I am glad it has not ended. I am interested in this continued evolution and grateful for all those early songs and rhymes and stories embedded in me which have gifted me my fascination.

Here, from my first collection Magnifying Glass published by Black Eyes Publishing UK, is my setting down of the night I etched a drawing into my bedroom wall before sleep…

MY MAN IN THE MOON

Lying in bed

I picked at the anaglypta

jammed my fingernails with paper and paste.

Stroking the grainy grey-white surface

I remembered Sunday’s porridge,

how its tempting smell had lied about the taste.

I got lost in the thought that milky oats could stick paper,

that husks could be the wallpaper’s bumps.

Time passed in touching and picking.

I found friction.

Mesmerised by the heat,

I rubbed my fingertips hotter

as if it might smooth my prints.

I watched the crumb-like drop of disintegrating plaster.

Then a crescent was there

with a nose.

I smiled as I picked him out

my man in the moon.

I carved his shape with the lid of a blue biro

coloured him in with felt tip pens.

That night I slept facing the wall

ready to show my mum in the morning.

But night’s darkness stole my colours,

faded red to pink,

turned black to tabby-brown.

Mum was sparse with words.

I looked through a film of tears,

saw his sinister grin.

WOLF MOONS

This morning the crunch-slip under foot of snow fallen on snow, and the intermittent sparkle of pretend stars on the ground. Oddly, the air carries the scent of bananas.

Alt text says this week’s photo is two women smiling for a picture. I say it is me and Kath wrapped up in knitted goods getting our steps in. And I have chosen to put it in black and white because in the colour photo our cheeks and noses are glowing rather red from the cold.

On the first of January this year I did something that was very rare for me in the whole of 2025… I read a book from my ‘to be read’ pile from beginning to end. It felt good to make the conscious decision to slow down and devote time to simply entering the world of a book, and it also felt fitting given that 2026 is The National Year of Reading. I had already decided that as a nod to this year’s celebration of reading I would re-embrace the joy of reading song lyrics whilst listening to songs I loved. Often, I know parts of songs, but not the whole and I miss out on that full immersion. My ear buds help because they put the music right into the centre of my brain (that’s unlikely to be scientifically correct, but that’s what it feels like to me) and I can hear things more clearly. But there’s something about reading the words at the same time as hearing them that sets them down for me.

When January’s wolf moon was nearly full I went out late at night and howled at it just because I could which made me laugh. It was standing under the wolf moon in January 2022 which had me scuttling off to my writing desk to form a poem which was brewing in my head. This then led to my desire to learn the names of each full moon throughout the year and a resolution to stand under each one before writing a poem for it. There was no poem in me asking to be written for this year’s wolf moon, but I took time to admire it rising and setting. Perhaps this is the year in which I just howl under each full moon, and embrace the moment.

Here’s to all the ways we find of being full, complete and whole.

And here’s that poem from 2022:

I AM HOWLING TO JANUARY’S WOLF MOON

by this I mean I have no words

by this I mean I am too tired to speak

by this I mean I think if I started, I wouldn’t stop

by this I mean there is too much I am holding in

by this I mean I am struggling

by this I mean I need to ask for help

by this I mean I need you to help me

by this I mean please howl at the moon with me

by this I mean I need you not to be scared

by this I mean I am terrified.

MY YEAR IN REVIEW

This morning it is raining and the almost unchilled air carries strong hints of green.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a collage of a group of people. It is indeed a collage and it is made from the photos that accompanied each blog post this year. I do like to take a look back before I look forward and I thought this would be one way of doing it for 2025.

When I was little I loved an annual. To me it was a book of delightful snippets collected together to be enjoyed in a period of time that involved a break from routine. I can picture myself reading in my pyjamas, the seemingly bottomless sweet tin, and the advent calendar that left its glitter on our fingers with all its doors open telling me that it was indeed Christmas Day. This week’s photo is like the cover of my 2025 annual.

This blog has been my way of building a good relationship with Mondays, and the fact there have been 114 episodes since September 2023 tells me that I have definitely adopted this as a habit. Singing as the Darkness Lifts (this blog’s title) comes from my love of three things: the sound of birds welcoming the dawn, the feeling of darkness lifting, the moments of joy that make my heart sing. And writing each entry is a grounding in the changing of seasons when I take time to sniff the air each Monday morning and note its scent. In some ways it is also a setting down before moving on with the new week. It is a simple place to reflect, and it is a place to find joy as the darkness lifts.

When I look at my year through the lens of this week’s photo it makes me smile as I get transported back to particular moments and particular themes. It has been a vortex of a year at times, the kind where my tyres (both metaphorical and literal) have not always stayed pumped up, so it feels good to see it as a whole and honour the sadness as well as recognise the joy… the fact that we chose the brightest flowers for my lovely Dad’s funeral… that 2025 was the year I changed my mum’s photo on my phone so that when I call her she is framed right there holding her 80^th birthday cake and smiling. It’s been a year of reflecting on silence, and words, and within it I have memed my brother, climbed a mountain with my sister, shared time with good people, celebrated the ‘showtime’ of yarn shows, and am finally learning the art of slow editing.

The following poem was shared at the launch of this year’s Christmas & Winter Anthology from Black Bough Poetry. I enjoyed writing this poem, and I loved hearing the selection of poems read aloud in the zoom room, and the fact that it then became the perfect evening to have twiglets and vegan sausage rolls as a nod towards the festive season.

THIS IS THE DARKEST SEASON

The tilt of the earth’s axis

offers us to winter.

We cling on,

fingers numb.

Remember spring my love,

hold tight with me.

Look how the snowdrops

lift lime-green lined umbrellas

above the blank, cold soil.

Remember spring my love,

hold on.

Stay steady here,

as the tawny owl hands night’s darkness

to the blackbird.

Remember spring,

let me show you sunrise

clementine the sky.