After the warm spells
Come rain and cold winds.
Skies are wet blankets
And March is miserable.
Like a young tortoise,
Without weather lore,
Caught sunning too soon,
I retreat quickly
Into the warm house.
The baby whinges
Wanting to go out,
He is not consoled
By crumpets for tea.
Judy knits quietly
Deep in the green chair.
The ball of wool shrinks
And she grows rounder.
When the second comes
It will be Summer.

March 1971