Winter Catkins (Poetry)

Every year the catkins come
rippling bold their yellow
seeking sun —
those few moments that it breaks
between dull clouds
and lights them as they move to
gusts of wind
that agitates — then leaves them
hanging on.

Every year your unsung birthday comes
its advent breaking through
the after-Christmas lull.
Your absence like an old returning ache
that fills a listless sky rag-grey
and threatens rain.

Earth’s held still in Winter’s gloomy grip
and yet these swaying catkins hang
sunlit
against the sombre green
of sleeping pines.
And something softens somewhere deep inside —
loosens hope —
I feel it rise
and form a wish to warm you
like the sun.