Catching the snowdrop’s callow ear:
The fluid sun like scented honey
Coaxes the young in field and spinney.
In stumpy groups the crocus grows,
Forgetful of the winter snows;
Each glossy mouth is open wide
Like fledglings begging in their pride,
And orange tongues devour the air
For every mote which may be there.
The spaniel Spring is on the plain
Flapping its dusty paws again,
But March and April in their house
Are plotting wind and heavy souse.
The fast March skies will trail across
With massive clouds in pitch and toss;
And April with a million arrows
Will kill the shoots and soak the sparrows:
The thugs and yes-men drink their tea
And plan their killing jamboree.
Each year the gangling daffodil
Is led an innocent to the kill,
And the old sun who plays his part
Looks injured with his hand on heart,
And tries to make amends in May
For what the facts will not gainsay.
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© March 1980