Like the worst is over,
The blinding end is sighted. Telescoped.
It feels like March.
Like the snowdrops peer their heads,
Suck up the cold and exhale. Fragranced.
It feels like 4’oclock in the afternoon.
With the working day,
Shuddering to a stop.
Like a retro robot who’s cogs have stopped churning, and falls soft to sleep.
Like a car that struggles to take off in the wrong gear, but does it anyway.
Like the sugar dregs at the end of a cup of tea.
It feels like I’m on top of a hill, and I can run
All the way down. Coat flapping, boots slapping
Wind lifting me up.
Pray I don’t trip.
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