For years avoiding clouds and
scattering like shocked birds at
the threat of showers feeling
organs set behind brown hills
when a sky as grey as guns reloads itself;

This morning I wake to a different sun.

Fuchsia

You blow in each April
on a heavy wind,
a blustering purple scent.

Something about you was always fuchsia.
Something about the precociousness of vines,
and the long shoots stretching down the years.

Your garden was overgrown to the point of neglect;
the bones of bushes scraped the windows.
That's how I recognised it. The smell clung to my fingers.

Bent paper clips smell
like summer rain.
Try it.

CREAM

Some blogs take the biscuit.

This one takes the cream.