Martin Robertson

Now and Then

May Day

Now May is here.  The wintered senses wake

to rack the celibate and bless the pair.

Now evening trysts in orchards reach their peak

and penances in convents.  May is here.

The old remember and the happy store

their memories up.  The empty-hearted fret.

The empty-bellied, the still driven poor,

who yearly add to what they would forget,

feel in stale blood renewed a prick of hate

and press towards a hope.  The exile’s scar

now throbs to agony.  Now kiss and play

couched where they can the lovers.  This is May.