Late May

A cruel time of year to go
With the hawthorn blooming.
'May', they cried.
And May they danced,
And the the cold wind blew.

We put another log on the fire,
Watched the FA Cup Final,
Drank Grigio from Trentino
And held hands. 

Clocks refused our supplications
Holding steady to the course,
Hour after hour
Ticking on.