War In Springtime: ( Ukraine)

Wintry winds still blow
through grey, hollowed out buildings.
Yet, green swells bleed through
hard, dry skulls, because it’s springtime.
This year, She offers
a strained transcendence: now,
a shadow, of Her
former, hallowed self. There are
few glimmers of hope
it seems. The light is perhaps
a little kinder.
It might enter through
the cracks in swollen empires.
O who wants to be
Condemned by cold steel systems?!
Flesh pink and milk -white blossoms
defy the constant
shelling. and yet the bodies
cannot be gathered
up. Dogs are viciously pulling
Burnt corpses apart
on plagued city streets as though
they’re merely saplings….
Here, in England, it’s the hour
of the hyacinth;
of the lamb and the leveret.
Even in old bones,
the primal pith is stirred and
a deeper purpose
Is rekindled. Yet, over there,
despair has taken
hold of the sovereign soul. Thus,
for the victims of
war, there is no blithe season
of blessed rebirth. How
bitterly ironical?!