Spring Light

Spring Light

On the ridge overlooking Stratford

I can see the slim church spire  

surrounded by rows of tiny houses

and the hump of the Cotswolds. 

Up here the wind is blowing 

spindly reeds flat to the ground. 

The track winds down into the woods 

ancient smell of must and leaf, 

wild bluebells lit-up in shady places, 

meadowsweet on the weedy path home,

gaps in the pale new leaves 

silver-light falls on the dry ground.

Even as the dead count grows and grows 

as the world is tipped into fear, 

this spring-light strides over the fields. 

I’ll take it with me, keep it lit,

like one of those tea candles you find 

in cold churches, flickering in the draught,

even when the darkness surrounds me.

Catherine Whittaker