Today’s poem

ONE APRIL AFTERNOON

The garden’s pale with primroses, First roses of the season. They nestle in the tufts of grass And bring with them good reason. For nothing lifts the spirits like Their sweet, good-natured faces. It seems as though the sun has sown Its heart in many places. The brimstones, first ones of the year, Sit delicately sipping The nectar from the primroses, Who, for their feast, are tipping. And, as they rise, it seems the sun Has taken flight in pieces. How did God make their yellowness? The wonder never ceases. The pigs-ear tree has catkins on. Its leaves are swiftly bursting Pink-green against the rich blue sky, And for good living thirsting. Forsythia has splashed around Its golden, molten tresses, As if thrust bolden from the earth The heads of lost princesses. Blue scillas ring the cherry tree With sky-reflecting collar. Without a decibel of sound, ‘Just look at us!’ they holler. But everywhere is shouting out That spring is now upon us. The sun, the skies; existence cries A benediction on us. I sit upon the swinging seat, And all around me trembles. It is as though the very core Of growing old dissembles. With so much life renewing, And with all the beauty giving, It seems to me it’s got to be A privilege to be living. Ruth Twyman Lockyer, Yarmouth, Isle of Wight.

...and Limerick We’re told by a showbiz reporter (Who’s revealing much more than he oughta), That word on the street Is that actresses’ feet Grow bigger as actors get shorter.

I. G. Fenner, New Milton, Hants.