(The rutted track to a rubbish tip)
By Len A.Hynds

Fractured ice in ruts, on that dreadful track.
Rubbish blown, from the dust carts back.
Branches down, and all a-splinter,
in this last cold hate of winter.

Such poison in this noxious air,
where nothing grows, when once so fair,
But is that some life, just stirring there.
I'm surely deceived on ground so bare?

But then a miracle, I see appear,
where such life must surely fear.
Stems pushing through to grasp the sun,
they strive in hope, their life begun.

As nature spreads forgiving roots,
and those gentle slender shoots,
trembling as I watch them grow,
and purple crocus proudly show.

I walk across their tiny world,
along this track that we have soiled.
They seem to bring us, our salvation,
forgiving all, our depredations.

It's magic!

Crocus in snow