I was going to say how this morning

winter gobbed on the forsythia

and how those little hopeful yellow faces

sulked under wads of spit

and report how the branches clicked and moaned;

ask whether we’d blame them

or the sun for pretending to have got it all sorted

but, who was, in fact, all talk,

and lightweight shining,

making everything either/or.

I’d been up taking photographs of plants,

snow, all that; had one image ready

to post, felt okay, a bit either/or,

looked like hell, probably,

but no-one was calling not even Mark,

my postman, who’s seen me looking

like several Siberian winters, even changed the tyre

on my car between doorsteps.

I was going to say those things;

post a close-up of flowers and snow

but tonight, changed my mind,

went back eighteen years,

posted this photo of Liam instead,

which says it all better.

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