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.
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