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Poem	however foul the times or difficult the ways are through those personal morasses this change of age won’t let a single being (rich or poor) be free from come spring the trees get on with their blossoming you’d think they didn’t read the newspapers you’d think the media hadn’t yet found a way of getting to them conveying the miserable truths this creaking into a new century has been unleashing come this spring (like any other) the ignorant trees still feel compelled to get on with their blossoming see all the journalists commentators politicians shaking their fists from within closed windows and choking on the fug of their smoke-filled rooms with all this bitterness about – what are trees doing getting on with their blossoming – bringing beauty out that’s a dead word – beauty – no time or place for it (except on page threes where people go to leer to forget the miserable world sitting on their doorstep) come spring how shocking to find trees don’t agree a bad habit that – to get on with their blossoming of course it won’t last – three weeks or so it’ll be gone then we can all go back indoors and forget trees and how they get on with their blossoming spring in and bad spring out – there’s no such thing nowadays as the natural law – blossom on trees – a thing of the past luckily for each one there’s a small corner in the dark where a light is stored and a gasp of delight survives and a song is on the point of again bursting into hearing at the mere thought of a one-time blossoming tree come spring – at that precise moment when the tree decides the winter’s been enough and its light side should now be burgeoned to the world – then in the quick of each denying being (wilfully or reluctantly or what) a blossoming takes place also – is noted and then put aside – its hope is not forsaken – spring survives
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