My legs don’t half give me jip these mornings.
I’m creaking despite the old rose hip cure.
I’ve seen fifty springs. This is fifty-one.
The rings are blurred though, nothing really clear.
There’s this sort of resurrection feel
about them you don’t get with March. Not March.
Marches are shrugging the cold, stumbling,
not shuffling off the big coat just yet.
April is yawning, rising like meercats
taking a look round the world in the sun.
There are sharp new shadows on the pavement
like the claws of things grown during long sleep
slicing out sly hair from crooked armpits.
We stare at them as if we were reborn.