May is the hobbling month: one foot

in summer dance, while Winter drags.

May is the month I waited three

weeks to be born. Blossom is shed;

fruit yet to swell; a touch of frost

curses the fertile ground.

Weddings

are consummated; maypoles danced

around; the old songs sung; a new

world lurks around stark & seedy

corners, at the end of the long

grim parade of lethal missiles,

tanks, gun salutes, jack-booted yobs;

hate-speech, cheers; & youngsters chucking

up the night’s binging in fancy

dress over the ancient toll bridge

into the slow flow of lily-

wreathed polluted river water.

Cups won and lost; picnics rained on.

A waft of sweat and sex and wild

onion on the crisp English air.