Crumbs for Robin

 
Easter on its way
Passion gone except for Bach,
feuds compete with fugues,
cardboard boxes foil and ribbon.
myths and legend now discarded;
next Thursday same as any other,
Friday shopping; Churches closed at three
Easter bonnets, mum for tea
potato shoots and frosts.
A blackbird sings at five
his nest somewhere on the ivy,
his love, with Easter eggs. . . . asleep.
Spring will do its best
to compensate for winter,
fogotten. . . now the clock's gone-on,
The round begins again as always
of that there was no doubt;
evenings in the garden. . . .
oil the swing and mower
clinking glasses with your friends,
leaving crumbs for Robin.