MY
WASTELAND
April is
not the cruellest month.
I would
welcome lilacs springing
from my barren soil.
But the
buds wither before opening,
the earth is dry and barren,
the drops too few and meagre.
The wells
are dry, the towers crumble
in Syria and Ukraine.
I listen
for the thunder but
no voice comes to me.
My soul
lies fallow and I long
for the fruitful years,
in this violet hour.
19 March 2014
