The Silver Bough

On the borrowed days of March,
the wild clary grows, amethyst abounds
the sky a China blue,
thin clouds draped across it like Vandyke lace,
the last of Winter snows embrace the high ground
and give it a ghost like beauty
as we enter the season of the quickening sun
the valley is lit from above
within its heart a lone birch, a tree of light, the silver bough
to shine bright white into the land of promise
and makes the air move around it
as the rains release its heady scent
the hare dances in the domain of the long grass.