Diana Webb

Solo

sharp east wind –
a house sparrow flits
in the winter jasmine

Through the window, branches of the lime tree lift, slip, sway against a clear blue sky. Partita and Chaconne. To fill the Albert Hall. To fill the vastness out beyond the dome. When leaves sprout soon, then I shall mourn the play of green-gold-green and later tints of fire along the suppleness of twig, this subtlety of silent music.

a flock of doves
across the path
echoes of snowdrops