We must trust

Here's another Fiona Benson poem, as taken from within the pictured (and rather wonderful), 2019 collection:


Almond Blossom

This morning, love, I’m tired and grave;
I can barely hear the wintered bird’s small song
over the hum of the central heating.
We must trust, I suppose, to the song’s bare minim:

that spring will be a green havoc
as the trees burst their slums
and the dirt breaks open to admit
crocus-spear and cyclamen;

and though we can’t yet feel it
earth’s already begun
her slow incline, inch by ruined inch,
easing you back from the brink.

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Fiona Benson (1978 - )

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