We clink Prosecco; enthusiastic
sun has escaped winter and burns while snow
clots the hills. All week daffodils across
the road waved at me, called me over. Now
they’re smug, shouting at our daffs, measuring
the amount of sun a long afternoon
offers. Red wine in bulbous goblets sneer
at the tall bubbly glass, and I have one
of each, clink them together. It’s a dark
restaurant…I choose lasagne and latte
with dusting chocolate not realising
that a season had turned. But the hills still
wear white…a radiator warms my back.
All hail Nature and the new calendar.


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