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.

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