The fields were muddy

and heavy on my boots.

Clouds scudded, fitful sun and

unpredictable icy breeze.

Grass marred by goose shit and tatty feathers.

Gulls lined up

waiting for the lapwing chicks of May.

Remaining pools still gleaming now and then

but surrounded by a stinking mat of rotting weed

– marsh gas less innocent

when you know what it can do.

And on I trudged through heavy mud.

Catching on barbed wire

and reaching bramble. Kneeling on nettles

not to disturb the flighty teal.

Gnats dancing, yes, and yellow dung flies catch my eye

to disappoint.

Until – there on the bank,

beyond the nettles and barbed wire – there she is!

Bombus pratorum, Early Bumblebee

Gold rump busy as she seeks her nest

and now, the day is March again:

Light breeze in willow;

Bursts of sun on blue pools;

The duck returning glorious

As skylarks tune the air

Box ticked, I skim the short mile home –

One swallow does not summer make,

But one Queen bee makes spring.