Early Blossoms

All England, blinking nervously, is out --

a little mild spell, much to our surprise,

has brightened frowsy February skies.

We sniff the air with nostrils schooled in doubt.

 

Baffled by balm, the fruit trees have misfired.

Like foolish virgins, hurrying on their scarves,

They’ve pushed out blooms half-petalled and half-starved.

The coming frosts will slice them like cheese-wire.

 

And I have loved you far too eagerly.

My half-cocked hopes have withered on the bough.

I should have doled my sweets more meagrely --

then, had I granted space, and time, and light,

your hobbled feelings might have taken flight

in any time or place … but England, now.