Viewed from above in early spring
the oaks have a shifting, softened quality
that gathers itself for green.
Spaced at our feet
the birdcalls rise at intervals
and the urgent, airy thump
of wingbeats punctuates
complaint with escape.

A rustle of wind
moves up the hill towards us,
recedes through the mix
of trees behind us, all
the senses awakened.

I had thought my capacity
for happiness was limited.
It is good to have arrived here
even if a little late,
discovering a language
I was exiled from,
waking with the ground
strewn with clouds and flowers
and images with their names
that are breaking cover, unafraid.

© Steve Griffiths, from ‘Late Love Poems’, publ. Cinnamon Press 2016