In the grey, miserable drizzle,
the shadows fall unsympathetically
like lost men in a queue of thieves.
There is a portent,
a promise of emptiness.
The fence fights to hold back the dim evening,
but light breaks through knotholes in the damp laps.
April is having a long lie-in.
Crystal droplets fall,
camellia still unbloomed,
dusk offers nothing.
(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018
