The sun is like an eggy wobble,
between the blown clouds, and
I’ve lost my trust in weather lore,
trials by sunrise colour, and those
wise men, anointed, appointed
weathermen, tapping away with
their clicky sticks on charts and
poking into spring’s sharp peep.
We still remain in winter’s hug.
©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter