You can tell when it’s a North Easter
You’re bones jangle, your ears ping
You know what’s coming
Nothing you can do about it
They call it spring
Evening skies divine
Purple blue and white
Promises to be fine
The inconstant veil parts
The fun starts
Rocks hurled by angry Gods
They call it hail
Running along the street
Your collar high, umbrella closed
Suppose this must be thunder
Still, what are the odds?
The garden’s shining bright
Eerily blanketed in white
In this topsy turvy world
All the colours unfurled
It makes the heart to sing
No wonder
They call it spring