Spring...? Poem by Pamela Ann Frances Crane

It’s March the First; the weathermen
And women cry, “It’s Spring again! ”
Despite the blizzards in the hills
And hardly any daffodils.

The frogs are humping in the pond,
One fern has made a tiny frond,
But not a leaf is on the trees
And walkers hunch against the breeze.

The Sun is barely in the Fish,
Whatever our presenters wish;
The Equinox is weeks away,
Whatever weather pundits say.

The astronomic start of Spring,
Bright catalyst for everything,
Is when our star burns the Equator
In the Ram, the life-creator.

Dishonouring St. David’s Day,
Our sense of time has gone astray.
Disdaining sleep, we raid the night
For hours extravagant with light.

We chill the heat, we heat the cold,
Stay adolescent till we’re old;
Dress up our children to attract
And then get stars and teachers sacked.

Refuse to rest, refuse to die,
Insist we have the right to fly,
To play God with the biosphere
Since we are all that matters here.

Come back, St. David! Help us back
To sanity! We’ve lost the knack
Of simple living, sold our souls
To self-esteem, commercial goals.

I long for unpolluted air,
For bees and beasties everywhere,
I’d like a night alive with stars,
Not nasty neon clubs and bars.

I long for peace, untainted bread,
The pulse of Heaven in my head.
I’d like a weather-girl to say
“It really will be Spring today”