Buckle-eared, sitting,
the ditch giving shelter
against a trying spring,
a hare with no immediate worry

just the usual stuff:
fox, buzzard, kestrel even,
the background mix of dread,
while to the left
snowdrops shine

and behind, carefree daffodils
begin a brief, incandescent grin
to draw life from

leverets will appear,
new-normally
on sugar paper cards,
if through our hurt grip
the ditch will hold

Breathe:
another week
has passed without
disaster catching
you

Funny
how that
seems to be
the common
pattern

I daily commit to being negatively capable
one might even say it’s the defining spark
of a life spent loving and hating
the art and accountancy
of the modern teacher’s grins and grind

So here’s a mellowly fruitful glass raised
to comrades and fellow sufferers
who dwell in uncertainty and decreasing circles
while those, as sure as idiots
forge ahead

A moment catches:
scent thrills a heart,
grabs memory in a vice
that denies gut overhang
and aching bones,
never a thing before

are is good
were is heaven

Get that window open!
Go on, do it!

Feel the fat rotation of the planet
throwing a little spring our way
to poke our amygdala
and rattle our dormancy

and sure, we know at the back of minds
a bare faced bait and switch is in play
which means our twitching fingers
will seek to put the big coats in the loft
only with dismay to find the grey frost
return to bite our ***** mid-March

but we can dream and show some ankle
can’t we?

We hold out for this spring
harder than a man who’s lost nine digits
to frostbite
so we can point to where it hurts,
be heard,
aware that we’re linked,
a swarm of warmer hands
that need to hold, to cling, to brace
against this lingering, malingering pain

We’re ready to emerge,
but only together
and while inclement, duplicitous weather
still rages
we’re better, sadly,
caved

Night
a nugget of slide virtuosity
sings clear in the dark
that from the usual velvet hand
somehow has been forgotten

Your brass-burnished touch
has been nothing but felt

Sleep on, whole rest

Cold white numerals
from the Teutonic-honest dash:
9.5°C

Not so cold, I guess
but not the weather to press the button
for the windows to drop

I do while accelerating
too fast for the road,
the fresh air has volume
that angry-loves my tired,
house-cat skin

The wub-wub-wub pulse in my ears
has a cause I control
for once
as the next curve beckons