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Why is it far more difficult to write

About the Spring and all that gives me life

Than drone for ever at the lack of light,

Dark depressive days and endless strife

Which autumn and foul winters seem to bring?

Why should the sight of daffodils seem lame -

As if Keats and Wordsworth got it wrong -

No more than a sentimental game

Ignoring the realities of long

Long freezing nights, before the Spring?

Why would my suspicious mind deny

This sudden burgeoning across the town

Where every verge and garden fills my eye

With shifting warmth, writ wide enough to drown

My shallow selfishness and let it sing?

If I weren't so blind perhaps I'd see

The bliss of solitude could work for me.

Brian Hick spring 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 19.4.23