it is cold
still wicked cold
at times when
the Russian winds
control
nay embrace us

I sit watching
the days go bye

under the trees
many broken and bowed
snowdrops bloom
daffodil move 
in rows
back and around
not Wordworth's
gentle rhythm
but raggedly

I notice a man
my age perhaps
whatever that is
a face 
as silver as birch
as if
but one of them

we exchange pleasantries

in no time
he slips
back into the forest
invisible
gone

I wonder
about it all
whether William 
and Dorothy
were lovers
not in modern terms
of course
but as sitting here
they cherished life
before Spring fell
to worldly Summer