a mischievous breeze

stings our faces under

a cloudless, pale blue

thin sky that offers no

explanation,

 

walkers stroll a little faster

without meaning to

keen gardeners choose rest

instead and draw up the

coming seasons’ plans,

 

the sun hangs camouflaged

pallid, silver, counterfeit

demanding homage but with

no credible currency,

 

we too are undecided

prowling like caged lions,

irascible, unsatisfied twixt

breakfast and lunchtime,

 

we woke with much promise

but have been jilted by the

cold breath and promiscuity

of late March, left deflated to

consider our meagre options

 

© GRS 4/25