May, a poem

This poem was in my second collection, Watching the Moon Landing. I often revisit it at this time of year. It’s odd how spring and loss seem to go together.

May

The dawn’s already warm, from yesterday.
Beside the path, a thousand bees insist

on lifting every final pollen grain,
may blossom transforms hedges into drifts,

while mayweed, bruised by boots, perfumes the breeze,
and foxgloves start to hint at the colours they’ll show.

Back home, our roses promise perfect leaves,
but a gap reveals where one no longer grows.

The patient tapestry of song falls still –
birds rise and chase a sparrowhawk away.

When they resume, their voices remain shrill,
in quarrel with a low propeller plane.

Is any month more beautiful than May?
Or more disquieting? I hear you say.