Marching into April

The year is in its adolescence

It is trying its body on for size

But not yet used to its long legs

And sex and looks

Awkward when it walks and feels

Awkward when the full formed daffodils

Suggest a cheeky bit of summer before dinner

; –  )

 

There is hope, there is memory

But there is no knowing what will be

Beyond this time of promise, heavy with buds that

May or may not

 Bear fruit, depending on whether

Frost sweeps Autumn’s sweets or thunder

Brightens all souls to glinting parodies of Paradise

: –  )

Harvest lament

This is when we harvest

What we sowed in Spring

And saw in June, July and

August; this is the cut and

Dry, the funeral of the year

When we still have its aged

Flesh with us in the room,

Testament to the wind, the

Rain, the sun and the long

Days spent filling up with

Juice and flavour, ready for

The journey back to ground,

Earth, soil: core to core.