Easter Sunday: such a joyful day.
Last night the deer came out to play.
Good Friday’s snow is going away.
The Queen’s ‘Happy Easter’ was said at home.
The Pope held mass all alone in Rome.
I’m writing this poem and I’m home alone.
We’re locked down at home and so is the cat.
This morning she threw up her food on the mat,
three hoicks and a yuck and then a wet splat!
The snow is melting. The sun’s in the sky.
Rain is forecast and the river is high.
Let’s hope I stay well: I don’t want to die.
I know that I’ll die, sooner or later,
but if at all possible, let it be later,
‘cos I’m not quite ready to meet my creator.
Maybe he’s like me, with a tear of sorrow
for all things undone and left till tomorrow.
I do hope he’s a procrastinator
not a ‘do-it-right-now’ style of dictator.