Spring sun risen from
winter’s tomb,
Daffodils invigorate
us,
Meanwhile in bleak,
sterile rooms
Lie the breathless
respirators.
It’s warm enough, so
it appears,
To crowd together in
the stores
And, while grabbing
for bread and beers,
Share in passing the
deadly spores.
Seedlings are
sprouting in their trays,
About the beds shoots
pushing through,
Tend the garden these
troubled days,
Close the gate on the
gaumless few.
Depends on what we
cultivate;
There’s choice or
chance, free will or fate.
Dave Alton
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