A poem about a neighbour in South London. He lived in a house beyond a high fence at the end of the garden and I never got to know him.

Listen to Ann’s poem The Passing Season  now – simply press the arrow on this latest post  page –

The Passing Season

Hidden from view he hums

deep resonant sounds of age and wisdom.

My neighbour’s steady beat on wooden stakes

marks time to his labour and his tune.

I peer into my wintered pond for life,

heavily pregnant newts glide in waiting.

Bluebells challenge crocuses for their space

buds of blossom spring from spiky branches.

Ash tree seeds scatter in the wind,

making space for waving fronds of green.

Birds compete for feathers for their nests.

The capricious sun hides its features.

A silence falls on secret thoughts,

as winter’s drama melts away at last.