Signs of Pre-Spring

by Seth Crook

A new fence-post rammer
banged with authority; a stob gavel.
The crofter re-stating his field.

Leaky hopes, leakier doubts. Sun out,
but ice rings still in puddles at 2.00,
even reformed crunch by 3.00.

And the bald farmer from Barra,
who always turns up at the garage,
a January Jim, with his 4 by 4,

his broken springs, brakes gone,
alternator packing up; who,
like the season, always says, I'll wait.