This Spring the hazel twigs
are showing green
against the dead branches of winter.
The snowdrops are displaying their innocence
amongst the pressed grass
of once snow-laden lawn,
but my love has no life in him:
he will not see these signs of life
or feel his heart lift with
the joy of Spring.

This Spring the daffodils which he loved so much
have pushed their spears
through the sodden earth and weary grass
to lift towards the sky
their loaded heads of gold.
But my love will not lift his head
nor show his beloved face to the sky
His breath will not mingle with the breezes
which March has brought
between the showers.

This Spring the haunting cry of owls
once again fills the deepness of the night
one calling to his love
and the other answering,
but in this darkness,
you cannot call to me my love,
nor can I answer you,
there is no Spring for us.

This Spring, in which a flaunting God
shows yet again the wonders of his mind,
will not belong to those who lie
beneath the sodden earth
but only serve to emphasise
in cruel parody,
all that we have lost.
No, there is no Spring for us.

Jessica Aidley - Poets in Progress - May 2007