In a spate of windmills

February becomes March

and March

(for such is the power of time’s silver thumb)

becomes April

April waves her blue wand,

dashing winter’s hopes to the ground

and May’s desires carry the day,

her many hands making light work of the rain

June commends all her swains,

sun and moon share her sky,

though ignorant armies clash

by night and day

July grasps the nettle,

August says its late but not too late,

September becomes October

without a second thought,

and October, as we well know,

is made of deathbed linens

and skies silky with blood…

November lies in wait,

and December gives not a toss

till January flits by

on a whetstone of ice,

head held high, daft with hope

* Penelope Shuttle's last collection Redgrove’s Wife (Bloodaxe Books,
2006), was shortlisted for both the Forward Prize and T.S. Eliot Prize.
Her latest collection is Sandgrain and Hourglass (Bloodaxe Books,
2010).