Squally March Afternoon

A rush of air sucks breath
From the lungs
The stride shortens 
Head lowers 
I dig deep
Peppered by bullets 
Of shrapnel as hail
Stings the face
And skims
The tops of the hedges
And turn into
The sunken lane 
Where primroses hide 
Like 
Porcelain tea cups
On rattling shelves
And acid celandine
Stands askew
With bent petals 
Made ragged by last night’s 
Storm 
Not yet spent
Violets creep close to the ground
As the roar in the trees above 
Drowns all other sound
And the low sun peeps
From under the veil 
Of inky grey.