Thursday

The wind, boisterous today
jostled 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 roads,
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.