In the Russian Wood

I searched through the trees
in the Russian wood.
The bullish wren,
reciting from the brush.

The towers loomed
in the pale morning
air, spring waking
slowly in the green lawns,

and the chaffinch
showing in the elder.
He was soon to sing.
A Chinese woman threw

a ball to her baby boy,
he motored
after the rainbow-coloured
thing. His grandmother

floated in their wake,
the gentle manoeuvres
of a knowing,
loving mother to more

than her first,
and foremost.

ยฉ Daniel James Greenwood 2011

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