This was sort of a sequel to Signs of Spring. All about finding some optimism where it wasn’t easy to see.
Rain in Bristol, 3pm
The clouds came at two,
They stole the park’s beauty.
Turned it in an instant to desolation.
The whispered promise of the trees,
Became an angry bellow.
It drowned out my joy.
Left only the tedium
That made the path home slick with treacle.
That only the rain comes early now.
But then I saw the crocus.
And as thick.
And as heavy.
As the treacle was.
Still, my tongue found its sweetness.
As I headed for home.
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