The last throws of his titanic, obliterating, rage upon him,

Mad King March sinks into solitude and reckless despair.

He had known all his life that his anger was wasted

on the faithful subjects who had grown to love him,

as they had every March before him, for Mad King March

understood that the time was at hand in which,

baring disaster, baring cosmic storms and ice so ravenous that would

carve death into the heart of the Universe, it was time to start

thinking of the future, the January babe, medieval child in arms,

once more.

“Enough”, March bellowed and the resulting winds chased with fury

long after the sudden expression of desire had parted.

“I know what needs to be done, I understand only too well that March,

that I, need a more temperate form, a milder approach if the beauty

of this world is to spring forth properly and not

just play with the tempting smell of Daffodils upon the lips of

fair maiden and old crone alike.”

Slowly and surely, the driving rain that had been swept along

by the end of cousin Winter’s blast seemed less intrusive upon his skin

and change was now at hand…

Ian D. Hall 2015