Pickles The Arms of Spring
He walked with a limp, his shoulders slumping,
like a stuck record catching the same place
each time, each time just off the beat, just off,
a loose hiccup in the stride. I pitied him
for the pain; for the dull suffering
in the monotonous lurch of the hip,
the repeated collapse round the lilting knee;
for the broken music of his walk.
limped on under a flowering tree,
bright with blossom showering round him,
clinging to his shoes, welcoming him in
like a bride from a wedding, love singing
as he walked, perfect over perfection,
under and into the arms of the Spring.