Springtime in Plymouth
by Annie Jenkin

Sun rays' glow on plush moss
this rich blanket grows on a tree stump,
when a squirrel hops on, it's as if
he is regally seated on a throne,

watching a Gold Crest dither
and flit until spotting a prize,
it lands, hangs upside-down
to pluck a tiny caterpillar.

I pause mid-stride and gaze
at a chestnut brown coat, standing
so still, a young doe with ebony eyes
stares back. Suddenly she bolts.

Perhaps, spooked by a blackbird
loudly rustling leaves, flipping
them over, flashing an orange beak,
triumphant, he wings away.

My ears are drawn to a noisy crow,
protective of young, he harries and pesters
a buzzard who barely flaps a wing
gliding out of sight over tree tops.

Early bluebells sway in the breeze
their scent draws a Brimstone,
bright yellow wings shimmer against
rich new greens adorning a river bank,

where water jumps and gurgles
as if tickled by its pebble bed,
running below a Victorian viaduct
that echoes of a bygone era.

High up on a rocky ledge
Peregrines nest in an old quarry,
one sits on the clutch, the other waits
in the sunshine for new life to arrive.

I feel an affinity here …
nature's heart open to all,
this freedom to explore
thrills me to the core.

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