False spring
poem
Grey worlds
Turn brighter, but more grey
Writhes up from the cracks: trampled cigarettes
Like worms splayed out on bone-dry pavement
And receipts et cetera - the long afternoon
Rises and returns to blue
Ground into asphalt hollows (underfoot
The smell of living rot); no one thinks to stay
And distant footsteps belong to nothing here
Nor anything that thinks, or hopes to breathe:
Dead echoes live for themselves alone.
After sunset they keep on going,
The blank steps half-heard only, always running
Down to the red line at the sky's end, to some other ending.
"...to some other ending."
That's often how I feel myself, when looking at similar scenes. False spring indeed! Snow is still very much a thing in our area. I still tend to like it sometimes, in a way.