Blowies

The light is attracting them.
They buzz and splutter in a chorus,
About my head.
They bounce of the darkened ceiling.
Morris left the door open all afternoon.
They were attracted by the kitchen smells,
Of fresh bread baking,
And Bowen's scones.
I had to rescue the cream before it was blown.
I should not complain too much.
They are a harbinger of the warm pleasant days to come.
They are blowies.

Smiling

Despite the cutting wind,
And the icy shadows,
The sun is smiling on us today.
Likewise the townsfolk,
As they go about their commercial pursuits,
With a lightness to their step.
Sunny solicitations all round.
Spring is here at last,
We all rejoice.

My Homesteading Dream Day

Arise to a halo of blue.
Grey's passed away.
Grass green.
No jumper.
Sunscreen and squinting.
Slasher on tractor.
Poddy lambs gambling on the lawn.
Kids on ponies,
Or in sandpit,
Or on the fort.
Fresh farm egg omelette,
With home-made cheese,
Many thanks to the Jersey.
Sour dough bread with butter.
Golden daffodils.
My cup runneth over,
With fresh made kefir.
 

Optimism of a sunny day.

Potential,
Not yet realised but...
In your mind's eye you can see it.
You dampen down the doubts.
Tramp them with possible contingencies.
It seems to be the sunshine,
After an extended period of grey.
That brings on the dreams.

The Gang

Contrast flashes, white against black,
Moving up into the trees,
In organised mayhem.
These are a young gang of hoodlums.
This is their patch.
My approaching car precipitates,
a flight for cover.
Their numbers have grown,
A few more recruits have joined.
It is a 'welcome to Spring' sight.
The coolest gang of white-winged choughs,
On the block.