We were nearly two months into spring, only

moments away from summer, and yet, yet,

though three swifts had returned from Africa,

though a pair of ungainly wood pigeons

courted in a neighbour’s gutter, though there were

hot days perfumed with plants and bee laden,

wintry winds from the north harried clouds south,

and the sparrows were hesitant to lay,

the laburnum reluctant to unfurl

its golden curlicues. The Four Horsemen

are coming, not at a canter but

crabwise in dressage. Armageddon

is approaching, not with a bang and a flash

but little by little.

Note: This piece has also been published in EXTERMINATING ANGEL PRESS THE MAGAZINE.