The promise of primroses fills each line,
Overflows in iambic flowering,
While wild garlic and bluebells define
The yellow of their petals, the showering
Of the woods and trees with pools of sun,
Where we walk the dogs and welcome in
This season, now at last that winter’s done,
Our hearts can fill themselves with hope again.
Let us breathe in a while and celebrate
What we have just now, and not what’s to come,
Live in this moment or else too late
Before that last insistent, marching drum.
For the promise of primroses is brief
As fourteen lines of sonnet, as our life.
