How long is long
enough? Count the phases
Of the moon, reckon
the seasons, or try
Some novel measure.
This time will slip by,
Even a most dread-filled
moment passes
As winter with all
its flooding has done,
And though spring
proves perfidious, with wind
That bites and
sharper squalls of hail, we find
Our narrowed world
glistered by rape seed sun.
Let us all spend
Easter at home this year,
Breaking bread and
passing the wine, sharing
Comfort and anxiety:
what’s scaring
Us is not being able to see what we fear.
Yet green globin
pulses through all that grows,
And come Good Friday,
I’ll plant potatoes.
Dave Alton
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