False spring this year, all brass, centre-of-the-road,
gone with what tempo it came. February, the deceitfully
There were flurries after that, but half-hearted.
No accumulation to speak of, no drifts.
March 18. Middle of the day we saw optimists
in sawed-off trousers shouting the winter over.
They might be right. But then I’ve seen many a false spring,
two to a season. No much more to say than
I’ve seen them.