In the fancy of younger springs
we feared only butterflies of love,
or, at worst, something sounding
like one of Lear’s daughters
to our still childish minds.
The objects of our callow desire
feared love's labour rather more,
and often staunched the flow
of hope’s eternal spring
hand-in-handkerchief.
But my own, now rusting,
creaking springs I wouldn’t
change for younger coils
to live in terror of an
acronymic plague.
