The Eightieth Spring

We made love many times, strange procreation,
a union, a joining of like souls, an amalgamation,
although many conceptions are in february remember,
when a percentage arrive to be born in november.

Visions of huddles in cooler climes to just keep warm,
resulting in when new life forms decide to be the norm;
supposing there were no births and we all lived forever,
our activities were random and not governed by weather.

Now, we need children so that's the way some remain,
to keep a balance, imagine they'll not be adults again;
what would you prefer - grown or not, a static hiccup,
nothing unusual because many of us have never grown up.

Love may be borne and brightly coloured birds start to sing,
when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of a lovely spring.