It’s a grey, heavy day,
not quite warm
but not yet raining,
uncertain.
A few drops fall,
one by one,
across your back,
past your cheek
and the curve of your hand,
The wind picks up,
swirling dead leaves,
left over from winter.
It howls through trees
and surrounds bright tulips.
They stand tall and proud,
hopeful and lively.
The wind shoots them down,
pulling off brilliant petals,
which now lay still,
circling skinny forlorn stems,
nothing left.
I’m walking in a park,
beneath a steel grey sky,
hear police sirens in the wind
and wonder
what tulip is being shaken down
next.
