The Way Spring Jabs

The way spring jabs

by Ayesha Chatterjee

The way spring jabs at winter,
each small leaf a soldier, death
unthinkable. When the sickly honeysuckle
thrusts its brown vine into the air
no-one notices. Camouflaged,
it curls like clay, but stays.

Death is everywhere, napkined in snow.
So soft against the ear it must be a mistake.
Still, we carry on, imagination
shrinking with the rain, the coming warmth
a myth to be believed.

In a sort of synchronicity, people open doors
and close them, letting no-one in except themselves,
lifting alter-egos out of boxes tinged

with disappointment. It is just enough to hold on
to what is left as the first spiders skitter over tiles
and set their endless traps, sparkling every now and then with dross.