May

May doesn’t give a damn about our squally nights
and overwork, and dusty city streets;

she sparks up candles on the chestnut trees
exuberant as Christmas in the suburbs,

spreads luminous blue-bells and forget-me-nots
in dappled twilight underneath the trees,

allows the don’t-care dandelions and celandines
to riot on grass verges with the daisies,

hangs cherry trees with bridesmaids’ posies
painting the earth with petals, candy pink,

unfolds each ripe and bursting sticky bud
to fingers of fine-drawn lime leaves,

hides creamy mob-cap bells of lily of the valley
swirling their perfume in the shadowy nooks,

lets hawthorn snow-drift in the hedgerows,
unseasonable whiteness weighing down the boughs

soaks up the blackbird’s song in elder flowers
hoarding its sweetness, ready to release in wine,

waves trees’ defiant branch-loads at the clouds
to say, “We’re still here. We survived the worst,”

and oh, she hurls the purple scent of lilac and wisteria
onto the wind, summoning you home.