Don't Blame Me for Spring

Alright, so it's March, so it's Spring.
Okay, so everyone wakes up at five a.m.
because millions of birds cannot be persuaded to do anything else at that time
but sing.

Look, it's not my fault that the elm tree bole's in tiny leaf,
and if the trees in your street are knobbly with buds or clouded with great sprays
of pink and white blossom, so that your heart aches just to look at them,
Don't give me any grief.

It wasn't me who put the clocks forward an hour,
so that people could stroll by rivers under blue-gold sunset skies,
or look in delight at rainbow droplets jewelling the hedges
after an evening shower.

Don't blame me, I don't control the season.
I don't make the air soft, or force lambs to jump about,
or spend my time mixing up that passionate yellow colour for daffodils;
honest, I've no reason.

Don't look at me like that. What do you want me to say?
It was someone else's idea, I had nothing to do with it.
But if you're going to be like that about it,
very well:
Hurray!