The symbols of arriving springtime have come late this year
in north-west London.
The blossom on the apple tree outside my bedroom,
heralding the anticipation of renewal
and the promise of life to come
has been delayed by several weeks.
And the flowering is less profuse than ever.

I try to seek the metaphor;
the concatenation of my personal survival
conveyed by the tree’s own growth.
But what does the linkage signify?
Another year?  Another life?  Another death?
Or none of these?

And if I yearn for signs of immortality
then I am doomed to morbidity,
as the tree is programmed to portray
a slow, inexorable but unmistakable decline.

And still I know that morning light
will daily draw me to my bedroom window
and the forlorn desire to see some sign
some hope, some promise, some assurance
that there is no inevitability
of change,
save that it be change itself.
Instead of which I am presented with
a demoralising symbol of uncertain hopes.

Spring should be an optimistic season;
the blossom on the tree should herald
a renewal, not a death.
But this poor springtime growth has
merely served to reinforce
the fears and sadnesses of
Winter’s  tribulationary concerns.

ENVOI
Five days the blossom stayed
and then was gone.
Nor were concerns allayed,
but hopes were thus betrayed
and possibilities undone.