In a French Garden in April in the Sun

At a distance The sound of some intermittent traffic, Some sheep too; Birds call. After our Unending Irish winter, God, I swear, Is a French garden in April in the sun. The trees, Ready for summering, Their fingertips of lightbright green, Fresh, new and promises too, Reaching up high to the sky Green Is definitely God's colour, A wise pallette Heralding summer/spring Nature's fling, A quietriot of colour And those promises. Winter is over, Winter is through – We made it; The butterflies tell me it's true Without saying a word, As pulse rate slows In this temple, This church, This holy of holies, This shhh.... In this French garden In April In the sun