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My first pint of cider of the year

On the terrace outside the White Rock

In heat, which would be suspect in July,

Unheard of in March and yet the shock

Is welcome - everyone I meet is happy.

Bands of students strolling by the beach

can't believe their luck, as they have heard

It always rains in England, and can reach

Minus three at Easter - but I digress;

Sitting here - it doesn't get much better.

Over twenty years this seat has gone

From somewhere to lurk while taxiing the children

To a poet's muse where sea and sky

Merge with the cider and the perfect I.

Brian Hick March 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 20.3.24