Even
my forced hyacinth
is cloying and sickly
sweetest blooms turned sepia
in a wash of melancholy
like sunbathing topless
in a patch of warmth
trousered against sea air
carrying salt
to cold puritan beaches
where around every corner
williwaws
might hold witches after all
hungrily sunbathing
in sickly-warm memories of spring
healthier hyacinths
better days
Using words from Kerry’s March list on Instagram
Reminder that I share stuff there too @runawaysentence
