It isn't springtime yet

It isn’t springtime yet.
The grey of winter washes the landscape
Softened only by muted umbers
And stilettos of solar glitz
On shiny stems of youthful ash.
Even the pastoral green
Is muddied by feet, tramping this way,
Passing with purpose, passing without.

Leaves, fallen and un-burnished from autumn
Packed now like papier-maché,
Obscure the margins of woodland paths.

Skeletal oak stands powerful against
Bisected backcloth of earth and sky,
Half grey-green, half blue-grey;
The proud tree’s gnarly dormant limbs
Are not for logging to burn
But logging to memory
For they tell a life’s story of complexity
Not discernible at a casual glance.

The paths that we have trodden were confused:
They never seemed to be where
The map told you they ought to be –
Or was it that we mistook the paths?
Now we know where we are only
By knowing how we got there, where we have been.
This is our precious store,
Our squirrel’s horde for the winter,
(Though the way is lined with bloodstained thorns
And shreds of self, hanging from brambles,
For emotions do not bio-degrade).

As paths converge we long to occupy
A single path, clasping hands ever more tightly,
Hoping to know just one more springtime
To take us home.