Lapsing in splendour to a spent, brown show;
And winter, swilled in the mouth like mouldy wine,
Grows busy with its ice-bound status quo.
Yet heedless of the sopping, choking soilCome Spring the heavy-shouldered seedlings stir –
Jazz up the garden like jam on the boil,
Singing in orange like a mad, punk choir.
My dear, my dear, should you go, should you go,What will be left me but the blackbird’s scream;
The marigolds smashed down by one cruel blow,
And dusk like anarchy along the lawns
Where some chill figure wanders with a dream
In the long, lasting, wasting day and mourns?
====================© August 1983