April is unpredictable.
I wouldn’t say it’s cruel.
Not predictably cruel.
But there is so often a squall of hail
when ice falls down from the sky
in a sudden ferocious burst
that makes everyone run for cover
and hide in sheltering doors.
It just as suddenly stops
followed by bright spring sun –
after it’s flattened the tulips
and the crocus are thoroughly squashed.
No, not cruel, not too cold,
but it makes wet fools of us all.
It’s raining sticks and old ladies.
The ice runs down my back.
I squint.
Wet is an understatement.
It’s as cold as a winter grave.
I went shopping today.
I crossed that street we crossed together,
The one close to the river
and the theatre.
You remember that day we met there?
It was cold and wet then
Just as it was today.
I went to the same cafe
and bought a coffee for one.
I hope for your return.
There is no promise you will come.
These days I wait for the sun
but hang on to my furled umbrella.
napowrimodreamingpath 