Primrose, periwinkle, snowdrops huddled
coyly, delicate by rose-stem-tangle,
cherry tree profuse, reaching freely,
lilac unsprung on the B of bud-burst.
Next door they have been pre-spring tidying
and heaped a fire which wraith-trails us its smoke.
It's snowing ash, the tiniest of flakes,
white clouds matching the colour of pale smuts.
We glee first float-fall, then frown and cough.
"A volcanic eruption," says Brendan
"Calamitous catastrophe!" from Vicky,
driving out of this danger-region. "Bye."
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
