Spring

A view that stretches maybe ten miles. Builders hammering on a nearby roof, their tinny radio singing something. It’s April, and sunny at last. In my head upcoming trips to Wales, Burnley and York, and why don’t I know the names of even the commonest birds, and when am I going to plant those wildflower seeds my son gave me for Christmas, and will they flower, and those friends I’m in danger of losing touch with, what am I going to do about that? Sipping tea. Everyone else has gone on a bike-ride, the roofers are hammering like someone knocking on a door, the view is unwinding into hazy distance, and it’s sunny at last.