Melting

Winters war is almost run.
Spring lies coiled,
taut and waiting
to burst for the light.
Throwing tendrils,
clinging to tiny handholds,
its grip thawing, digging, clawing,
colonising.
Pushing its way through hard ground
Splitting tarmac, forcing it up and out.
Smothering winters work.
Woodcut crisp lines made filthy with green.