You, who taught the daffodils to dance
and tip-toed softly through a young girl’s hair,
yet, with a sudden scream of song, you tore
through alleyways and window frames and locks;
tarantella’d with the clothes hung out to dry
and harried all the clouds there in the sky.
You take a breath and in the lull we see
a glimpse of Spring, a tantalising thing
to bait our yearning for some warmth
but you’ve not done with jostling, teasing, yet.
You like to stir things up, with one last fling
before we cross the threshold into Spring.
© Marion Sharville