A bee hums over jaggy tips of gorse.
The ferns have unclenched their fists 
and they tickle me green as I pass.
Clouds sweep the horizon, puffed
as if the same crystallised breath 
we blew out at the year’s end. 

I remember staring from the window
through January grey 
at dead hillsides, mute and drained
of colour and movement.
Today I will spot my home
from the mountain top.