Crisp January cleansed. The old year’s dead
and shriven as spring lambs we can’t evade
the dreary days, the month that lies ahead.
Like purgatory, the crossing must be made.

Bleak February’s world is monochrome,
with all its colours drained and stored for Spring.
It seems the year has set its heart of stone
to sharpen up the rain for added sting.

The shortest month, yet longest to endure.
March bides its time to have its gusty fling.
Though leaden skies are clamped down and secure,
the sun may peep but doesn’t warm a thing.

A dreaded month, when all is said and done
and yet…the snowdrops do not fear to come.

© Marion Sharville

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