Winter’s last gasp is a breeze
with light snow. Barely pitching,
it won’t hold the pattern of a boot,
will be a crackle of ice by morning.
But here I go tempting fate again
when the forecast changes
come thick and fast with each blast
of wind that tears in from the east.
Yet there’s still a kind of мекност
in the way a cat pads up to our fence
even though the birds have flown.
Maybe it remembers something
drifting in from the coast –
a taste of spring, a tamed season.
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips