The white horse, always in my sight
Still sports a winter blanket, tight-
Wrapped around his noble frame
Were I outside, I'd do the same.
The moving hand has changed the hour
The calendar says April shower
But all the buds stay tightly closed.
Are we really in the throes -
Of Spring? I doubt it; global warming
Melts the ice cap, Gulf Stream turning.
Cornwall's palm trees feel the pinch
The Artic winds don't budge an inch.
And when the timid sun appears
The clouds soon bring the skies to tears.
The change is swift, we have to run
To car or shop door, coat undone.
O, seedlings, nestling in the dark
When will you rise to meet the lark
And burgeon on the Lenten sward
Tulips, daffodils in accord?
Snowdrops lift their pallid heads
And winter aconite still spreads
Its golden globes along the bank
In sodden clumps, all else is dank.
The knotweed, import from Japan,
Which grows apace, tall as a man,
By April should be shoulder high
And yet is dormant. Why, oh, why?
As for the nettles, first to grow
In woodland, they have yet to show.
It is as if a spell were cast.
Prince! Kiss this sleeping beauty - fast!
(c) Poet in the woods 2016