Young March steps from behind the long dark skirt of February, lightly toe-dipping into the fast-flowing year.
Cautiously, she caresses the trees, seeking sanctuary.

Emboldened by their welcome, she feels her feet, shakes off her fear, blows out her cheeks and starts to set her pulses wild,
a challenge, test of strength, a force within, a teen-age mutineer
having a fling; a skirt-lifting Whirling Dervish; a devil child.

Recklessly she shoots the rapids of the rooftops, searches every cranny for things to play with, until they’re spoiled.

A deceit of tempo lulls us, as she seems to slow and stop.
Her power drives her on though, without slackening, hurling dustbins, screaming like a banshee down chimneys, through locks.

The damage?…of no consequence. It’s beyond her reckoning.
Exhausted, spent, she succumbs to April’s gentle beckoning.

© Marion Sharville


I met him in the shoe shop,
he was trying on a shoe.
His socks were full of holes
but Oh!.. His eyes were blue.

Dad says he needs a haircut,
short back and sides would do.
I like his little pigtail
and Oh!.. His eyes are blue.

He wears Bob Dylan’s sweatshirt,
that was worn at every ‘Do’.
Mum says he should have washed it
but Oh!.. His eyes are blue.

I’m meeting him on Sunday,
what is a girl to do?
Mum says, to keep on walking
but Oh!.. His eyes are blue.

© Marion Sharville


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.

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

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

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

© Marion Sharville

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑