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COMPETITION

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Flavour of the month

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1973 you were invited to write an acrostic poem about March, the first letters of the lines spelling out COMES IN LIKE A LION.

The word 'March' is far too clipped to suggest such an unpredictable and disor- derly period of the year. I wish we would rename our months, as the French revolu- tionary government attempted to do; then February could revert to Fill-dyke and March could revert even further to the wild and windy-sounding Saxon Hrethmonath. Feelings about the month are mixed, but I side with Valerie Flatman's kindly assess- ment, 'Not a dictator, a maddening child' — a phrase which fits both ex-lovers and still present friends. Two of you risked a double acrostic, the last letters of the lines spelling out GOES OUT LIKE A LAMB. I was impressed, but the inevitable lack of spontaneity outweighed the extra ingenu- ity.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Jane Falloon. Cavorting boys are buffeted by squalls

Of wind as sharp as claws: they race for shelter. Mothers with infants wrapped up tight in shawls Exclaim as gusts blow hats, caps, helter-skelter.

So mauling March comes in, wild month of rain. It flummoxes the weather-vanes on churches. North, south they go, and back to north again; Like whirligigs the cocks spin on their perches.

Impervious to this ranting, roaring spite, Kaleidoscopic sunshine comes and goes, Enriching tapestries of flowers with light Aconite, snowdrop, crocus, pale primrose.

Lazily, lions soon settle down to sleep; In calmness following equinoctial days,

On hills and mountains new lambs prance and leap. Now all is tranquil. Sheep may safely graze. (Jane Falloon) Coyotes howl the moon outside their lair; Ocelots dodge illegal, sharp-eyed furriers; Mules, hybrid, sterile, suffer the same worry as Echinoderms, who mate with extreme care.

Salukis race until their quarry drops; Ibexes butt themselves blue, horns to crupper; Nightingales sing their heads off for their supper; Lambs gambol briefly, then are turned to chops.

Impala bound like lightning over the plain; Kangaroos kick each other's solar plexus; Elks bust their antlers (battle of the sexes!) And axolotls immature remain, Leo, however, knows he's on a winner: Idling his sleepy life out, with a pride Of lionesses, he's well satisfied. Needless to say, they also catch his dinner.

(Alyson Nikiteas) Comes the time to finalise the balance Of finance transactions for the year, Moneymaking risks stay in abeyance, Enterprising gamblers must beware. Savings should be slickly calculated, Income tax avoidance schemes applied, No exemption loopholes underrated, Long-term fixed-rate futures multiplied. If your Tessa isn't fully loaded, Keep your wits about you, and invest Every penny; though your tax is coded, All your partner's quota on request Lies there mounting like her alimony, Itching to be Pepped with bonus shares. Other than spring blossom, March breeds money: Nifty schemes this month make millionaires.

(Giles Ewing) Chimney-pots teeter, unsure of their moorings, Outside, amidst the confetti of sleet, Mad-hatted folk with inverted umbrellas Edge at odd angles, or tack down the street.

Surely at last it must almost be springtime: Isn't it time for the grasshopper's voice? No, for at six on St David's Day morning Listen — the gritter's unsociable noise!

Into this shrill world some snowdrops have struggled, Knowing full well they'll be squashed by the squall; Even a daffodil, brave and defiant, Achingly sprouts in the lee of the wall.

Lenten would be this raw month's entertainment If I forgot, trusting soul that I am — On the last Sunday, in churches and chapels, Nevertheless it goes out like the Lamb.

(Martin Woodhead) Chaucer was plainly none too keen On March, painting a drought-filled scene, Mournful and dead till April's shower Enters the root to wake the flower.

Subsequent writers praise no higher; In fact the month's a sad pariah.

Nuttiness, Carroll thought? Well, where Look but in some bizarre March hare?

In Swann and Flanders' song you'll find Knocking of March as 'so unkind'.

Even old Masefield caught the craze And grandly sniffed of 'mad March days'.

Let one at least abjure such spite: I love this month of lengthening light, Of gusty air and streaking sky - No global warming need apply.

(Chris Tingley)