A poem by Elizabeth Jennings
It is burning the winter away.
The smoke is coming like clouds over sea,
It has its own tides.
Its own laws.
There are only small flames to see:
Nothing like fireworks or stars.
But it is a herald.
An augury.
These tight buds of flame
Will burst later on borders and flower-beds
Most decorously.
All passion is like this –
Like the spent rose
Veering and turning in a bevy of winds
Till the seed overflows.
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