Long after Trump and Andrew are gone, we will still have spring and snowdrops

Sodden Spring

Day after day the pads of the dogs’ feet

Spoon the silting road surface

Into their own fur with every soaking footstep,

Snowdrops shoulder aside their mud beds

Searching for daylight between pebbles and worms,

Princes, having been unprincely, are unprinced,

Prime Ministers fall into the tramlines of their own bad choices,

And Presidents claim parts of the earth’s crust

To which they have no rights;

Their demands slam against the walls of each other’s egos

As they fight over the toys that are us

In their efforts to save the skin of their faces.

When they die, they will not matter, having improved nothing.

But the snowdrops will come again and again

Shrugging aside the weight of their containment,

To flower whitely, silent in the mayhem that greets them

Year after year,

As they solidly retain their ownership

Of the verges and hedgerows beyond which

All of humanity ebbs and flows.