The lilac in the neighbour’s garden
Is hung with gorgeous mauve brocades;
The soft-hued sky begins to harden
Towards its garish summer shades –
Grey gives way to blue and blinding,
Striped with cotton clouds unwinding.
The ladybirds are out in force,
The morning chorus growing hoarse;
The warmth seeps in through wall and window,
Softening the Easter eggs;
Thrown-back bed-covers snare your legs
And all attempts at sleeping hinder.
Grey April for a moment’s masked
In summer daze. It will not last.
It didn’t. Today we’re back to half-hearted Yorkshire drizzle and temperatures requiring the central heating.
The procession of poems took a hiatus because I had essays to finish. They are now, happily, done, and, less happily, now beyond rescue. Normal poetic service should resume, and I intend to carry on into May in order to finish up my quota of thirty.
Also: another Onegin stanza. Is there nothing this form can’t do?