The sun caught the shy violet, shedding
light on them, as they appeared like
sapphires in the grass and gorse and
gave joy to the slow journeying.
They smiled at the swift, flying swallow
retuned to a cold and frightened land,
as it dipped and darted, diving for flies
while the fearing folk stayed in doors.
Slowly the spears of azure and pink
unfurled their bells and rang out for
the first Spring in history where nature
is free to frolic, and flower and fly.
Indoors the tears run liberally down
the faces of the grieving, gathered
alone or on a screen,
they show shock
and sadness of their
losses. In hospital no one journeys
alone to death,
the NHS sees that they are comforted
but others wait at home, solitary,
silently, wanting December back again.