It is cold out here in the April night…

for the Spring brings round

once again the thoughts

of bitter, distant feeling

and the detachment

from those I once held so dear.

 

In winter I can hold off the tales

of chilly formality by stoking

the fires of resentment,

my own poke in the gas filled grate

of which I would never

speak out loud.

 

In summer, the lazy days

in which the sun burns

down and turns the river bed