Spring flutter

February flickers

last trace of winter fingers

a half moon flies from

pink ringed sky.


Snowdrops push through

water laden meadow

& the mud goes on & on

thick, sticky, like blood.


I wake to grey mornings

where sleep lingers

& the duvet thickens

drawing me back into the dark


unconscious warmth of sleep:

where we walk the sun baked sand

to the rocky fort & stand staring

at the thin rimmed lip of sea


just the way we used to be.


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