outside

the mystical pull
of the outside
tugs against
the rational arguments
of cold
and wet
and windswept
so
wrapped up
in coat and gloves
I stroll
camera poised
searching
for mother nature’s
spring treasures
of golden blooms
hidden in
shady hedgerows
in between
the brambles
and when
the hailstorm
begins
I tuck the camera away
and grin
as hailstones
sting my cheeks
and bounce off
my gloved fingers
and in my heart
I’m dancing
in the
wind

teasels

spiking skywards
at lane’s edge
golden teasels
bring a rush
of warmest love
with the memory
of other teasels
far away
high up Ham Hill
as we walked
hands-held
in autumn sun
and early bloom
of this sweet love