The houses wear a different look tonight, On the qui vive, alert. They're just the same As yesterday, through the same window frame, Yet in this light Look like a bride signing a first time name.
Yes, it's the light that does it. Every day Till now those houses crouched under a storm, Stiffened themselves for wind, followed the form Of winter, but today A first evening of sun. Not that it's warm, Only the colour strengthens on the roof, Cream pebbledash, bright paint against the trees' Stark jagged silhouettes: that brilliant frieze A sudden proof Of spring, a jolt of turning: an unease.
Spring takes us unawares, as all agree.
Formerly that was fun, rounding a bend And finding there an unexpected friend; Or out at sea The shout of 'Land ahoy!' and journey's end.
This year the houses wear a different air.
The trees of course will leaf themselves and hide Wall, roof and flashing pane by Whitsuntide But cannot share That rising of the sap with those who died – Three of my friends who will not see the spring, Though one had sea and one had hills and one Anticipated airways to the sun.
Does April bring Me warning through the mourning? 'Quickly, run, Look at the twig before it turns to leaf, Marvel how red the roof tiles and how blue Above them. Well, what saturates the hue?
Precisely, grief.