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 fighters, missiles,
gun salutes, tanks, 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 the lily-
wreathed polluted river water.
Cups won and lost; picnics rained on.
A waft of sex and sweat and wild
onion on the crisp English air.