Feet that jumped so innocently in March’s puddles
Now stomp in the shallows of rain-flooded May.
These are the year’s most adolescent months,
Arriving abrupt as a slammed door or an opened heaven.
To hell with winter – let it all be overthrown.
Kicked away defiant as a swimmer’s turn,
The last of its berries – pink, blue, black and red –
Strewn across the smooth green baize
Of the garden’s snooker table.
These are the ugly duckling weeks of acne and braces,
Of spring gales ruffling Narcissus’ pond,
Sparing him his reflection that he might yet live,
Might yet enjoy the spurious spark
Of a mayfly’s afternoon.
New shoots escape their ties as spent blooms
Scatter like feathers after a midnight pillow fight.
The fruits are budding in the orchards now,
Succour for breakfast bowls or maggot homes deluxe –
Only summertime will tell.
Dave Wakely’s writing has been shortlisted for the Manchester Fiction and Bath Short Story awards, and appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Online Programme Manager for Milton Keynes Literary Festival, he lives in Buckinghamshire with his husband.