The radio announcer is precise:
‘The equinox occurred at 3-o-6
this morning.’ Spring, officially, is here.
Which somehow, unofficially, invests
our walk above the inn in Normandy
with special, Eden-like significance.
The birdsong’s at a volume that suggests
the singers needed no announcement. Look,
the path now drying after months of rain
is bordered on both sides by aconites
with here and there a clump of primroses
and single bluebells out before their time.
No one about. Sweet Eve (though well wrapped up),
who knows how many springs remain to us?
Inhabit this one with me. Hold my hand.