In my memory a
late snow had dried,
-leaving no trace-
though it still flaked
eggshell brittle from
the damp cellar walls.
I recall the deer park.
Richmond in early April,
probably a lifetime ago.
The pink and white a
growing bloom,
was joy within.
Did I dance the blossom
under ruck sacked back
and in leather shoes?
Dappled tree shadow,
as petalled canopies filled
the obscured skies.
A morning,
those trudging ways.
And everything was white
and pink. I loved
the pastel rain.
It made me cry.
©️ Dai Fry 13th May 2020.