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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
