April Poem

EVEN IN APRIL  

Winter has a long arm this year

Even in April I feel its chill fingers on my blood

Cold is in the wind; the grapes are harvested

And the last shrivelled passionfruit are buffeted to the ground. 

Time and again bad news comes to me in April

But how did young Tom Eliot know, from his northern waste,

Used to the sudden appearance of eggs and bunnies, and bursting buds,

How did he know that April is the cruellest month? 

Old Chaucer longed for company in April

Travelling south from London through the showers

With birds twittering and the crops growing all around him

And old friends to share those stories. 

We are all fools here: papering over the cracks

With a transplanted tale about an undead god.

This side of the world has its own patterns,

Carves its own record, lights its own fire. 

Here in the south Spring is a long trek away.

Dying we can celebrate but there are no

Empty tombs in this windy coastal scenery;

Clouds mass from the south-west, threatening and grey. 

Only the Easter moon shines watery and still

Hinting that somewhere around a great curve

There is sunshine and warmth and new life –

A promise that next September may fill. 

(But it’s a long, long while

From May to September…

And I haven’t got time

For the waiting game…

--Kurt Weill: September Song.) 

14 April 2006