No Bells

Maytrees flowering,

like nothing is wrong.

Rain still showering

all spring long.

Age is devouring 

youth and song.

No bells left to ring,

that time is gone.

April

The cat resigned to stay inside,
staring out from his cushioned settle,
following a fieldmouse with his eyes
until it merged with the moss and pebbles.

The thirty-first was dull.
March had come in like a lion
and gone out like a discouraged one,
leaving April to be defiant.

It will still be spring for a month.

Time for the sun to touch and rouse

flagging spirits and feared outcomes,

making things right, turning them round.