Sunday Morning

Spring is cold and wet- buds reluctant to open - trees seem veiled in smoky see through color- an occasional tulip shivers alone-daffodils have long since left - some without deigning to flower- garden work is not warming enough to enjoy- The rains fall mostly on weekends increasing the frustration. One dresses optimistically each morning, adding layers on each venture outside. Clouds darken the late morning sky as the ever present birds argue over the always half empty feeders. The lettuce and beets love the English weather. The transplanted Liverpudlian (53 years ago) is back inside the warm house. So is the cat, curled and contentedly purring. As he looks out it seems to be clearing again. He looks for shadows. The eldest daughter's truck leaves the driveway. He types on reaching frustratedly for inspiration It's as hard to find as shadows on the road outside his window. Maybe another cup of sweet black tea, or p'rhaps a tot of rum. Summer's prob'ly on a Wednesday this year, or so it seems.