the first cuckoo

cuckoo flower

Well, not actually a cuckoo as such, but a cuckoo flower.

March went out like a lamb and it’s been gloriously warm recently – so much so that I am afraid we have already had our summer – so I had begun to wonder what had happened to the April I know and love who provides us with such constantly changing weather that we are never short of a topic of conversation.

cuckoo flower;

I was reassured that she hadn’t forgotten us last night, as the few spots of rain that accompanied me on my way back from the supermarket mid-afternoon were followed by more and more until it became quite torrential.

This morning everything is washed and fresh and although a lot of the blossom has been beaten from the trees, they are still rather lovely in the pallid sunshine.

River Avon
Unless it brightens up a bit more and the breeze calms down a bit, I think the seat by the river will remain empty, though.

I know I posted this just under a year ago, but I think perhaps it bears repeating:


While others bundle and bunch
under umbrellas, shrug
into pak-a-macs and hunch deep
into their collars, their faces
scrunched, gurning
against the elements, she
pokes tongues
at raindrops and laughs
glitter from her hair.


ornamental blossom

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

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