Rainbow flames its brief bridge
Of blazing colours across the April sky;
Sharp showers, darts of cold air.
From up here, atop one-time
Old Howe Ridge, long-time ago home,
Site of ancient farm and a school
That educated all and the one
It is impossible to see the distant,
Grey-cloud blanketed city in its role as
Industrialised, scarred prostitute.
Distance and spring rain are
Distraction and disguise.
We travelled between
Historic limes to get here:
An avenue where, much later,
Joyous wights will chance the
Wedding gambler’s dance.