Trees strung with Catkins.
They hang on tight, bewitching the eyes of the watcher.
The observer, who so sees them twitching in the breeze of spring.
Perhaps, they belong to the Manx cats who left their tails behind when they played.
Or perhaps they’re just the tails of mischief making local kittens, their tails got snagged when out at play.
The woman from the florist shop stopped.
Picked one or two.
Such a perfect accompaniment too.
A few spindly twigs.
To concoct a springtime creation.
For the lords and the ladies.
Of this great nation.