The Spoiling Of The Devil's Garden Poem by Barry Middleton

The hint of life in spring,
the newest buds
that died all winter long,
must have thought
all nature grieving,
lost from hope
in fear and cold
and loneliness.
The hint of life,
the thawing brittle sleep
curls out an arm,
a golden finger sprout
foretells a wrinkled hand
to consecrate a greening life
and promises of things to come.
Five months of death a year
would seem enough.
Periodic bloom,
perennial doom,
suffice for them,
a momentary tomb.
The hint of life in spring
proclaims that we endure;
and still men's eyes
must register surprise.