The Month of May

The fair month of May is upon us at last,
The thick woolly jumpers discarded.
The shivering mornings are hopefully past,
Called to one side and red-carded.

My wife loves the warmth of a fine summer’s day,
In winter she’s fractious and narky.
Her favourite month of them all is sweet May,
No longer incessantly parky.

The buds are all darling, the roses unfurl,
As nature has fun at parading,
The barbecue smoke disappears in a swirl,
The smell of cut-grass all pervading.

The hawthorn blooms white by the side of the road,
The dragonflies hover and shiver.
The consummate bark of the natterjack toad
Resounds on the banks of the river.

When April is done and dark evenings contract,
Great peace on warm breezes is carried.
My wife adores Maytime, despite the sad fact
That that was the month we were married.