Spring is the King. A poem by Emma Hammond

smashes it up into the April. This year
we are not allowed outside- it suits me fine
for only the forest is sad without the old gang,
me and Doggin. I had not been up there,
for to clock the loss of together would be
too much, right. Kinga was vivid, every old lady

would fizz and cry such a beautiful dog. And he was.
A streak of fire in the trees, his white trousers
at the back bobbing along under his fern-proud
tail, everyone loved that boy. This year we are
not allowed outside, but it suits me down to
the ground- old World with its all kinds of glitches,

some good stuff like cinema and magicians,
but mostly ice. They’ve gone and done it now-
the whole of the everything’s shut. The place is
in bits and it’s not so bad, just an egg-coloured
ghost with dark wailings of Easter all in scrambles,
I’m opted out, see. Spring is the king and I’m free.