1100

17th January

Late frost trims the uncut winter lawns.

Against the blackened branches up above

The cherry blossom spreads its pale-pink buds.

The Rose Garden seems dead

But every woody stem is touched with green.

At low tide, two dogs race the sands,

Blurred shadows in the mirrored midday sun.

A couple sit for coffee on the White Rock terrace

Wrapped up but relaxed.

A flock of gulls swoops, turns and melts away

Beyond the pier.

Brian Hick January 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 19.1.24