Thinking about Robert Harris the Poet Cold Spring crept over the hedge-line again, and squints at the increasing zone of light where the early sun reaches further down the still-bare cherry-blossom; as if stretching an arm. This collection of wooden energy waits with eager longing for greens and pinks to burst, urging eucatastrophe to be the norm. It causes oohs and aahs including from some who stop beyond the gates in cars, and stare before driving away. Many tiny birds flock through this still, bare world. The smallest impersonate tiny, brown leaves to escape the food cycle of currawongs and…