My Wasteland

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