Dandelion, isn't it time? Dark was the British winter, and dank, and what passed for spring just more of the same. When will you show your face around here again?

Mayfly, who live for just a day, when will you take the time to drag your larger, longer shadow down from the sundial? May we be granted the sight,

if not of sun, then of a yellow so luminous we gray souls look and then look away: let acres of oilseed rape bloom, acidic as your grace.

Swift and swallow working your way toward heaven on the wind, let it rattle the scarecrows' rags. But not enough to scare the rooks picking at the field left fallow,

not bothering to beg your indulgence. May the wild plum keep its flowers just two more days, that it set fruit, though, come summer's end, the yield prove largely stone, and sour.

Consider the blackbird, beak full of straw: who has no nest builds one now. Who has a house wanders out of it, forgetting where she was going in a sudden snow of cherry petals, so fine their fury.

Note: Loved that resonance to Rilke's "Autumn" in the last stanza - "who has a house wanders out of it" - as I had done earlier this morning, ending up walking back home, in pouring summer rain.