Not easy, this.
It’s an Easter card in crayon sent by murderess Rose West,
It’s an orange frock in rayon that’s been voted Season’s Best,
It’s the rain that stays on longer than the least welcome houseguest:
You don’t want to see the darker side of spring.
It’s the lambs all dead of frostbite when the children run to see,
It’s the wordless howl of March wind as it taunts the solitary,
It’s the Beckettian mindscape of each Spring Bank Holiday:
But you have to see the darker side of spring.
It’s the resumption of hay fever when your flu is not yet done,
It’s the horses we’ll slaughter when the Grand National is run,
It’s the fading ghost of theism that haunts each hot cross bun:
No-one quite escapes the darker side of spring.
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