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.