Thursday

   
The wind, boisterous today  
jostled toppled trees and me  
barged and bungled bullied  
no concern for the wood.  
A scarf serpentine about my neck  
clung close for warmth choking me.  
Spring is here borne on March winds  
roaring lion, fearful lambs  
A topsy-turvy April.  
Ditches drying in the breeze  
dry soil blows across the road,  
late sown seeds not yet green  
rooks stealing what the farmer sows.  
I remember many springs  
but none so late and cold.  
Jack's had his run, time for home  
We'll be back tomorrow,  
I know when I'm not wanted.