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

: –  )

SAD, never mind, anticipate Spring.

 

This is the time of year when

Music needs to dig deep

To find us, rap a rope

Around our waists and wind

Us up to the light.

 

This is the time of year

When summer sounds are

Hollow and clatter round

Like flies scanning for jam

Round  an empty jar.

 

This is the time of year

When Love’s warmth is

Set in relief against the

Grey, when any ray is welcomed

 Like a hero from the war.

 

This is the time of year

When something as tiny as a

Crocus bud is all the hope

We need to prove again that

Life springs from mud.