That cuckoo keeps on calling steadily
Presumably it has a secure place
It can’t have nested in the chopped-down tree
Or if it did it’s moved to a new base
The cuckoo heralds spring’s returning face
This year that face is cold with winds that whip
Yesterday, motorway driving at pace,
My car was buffeted. I felt it slip
Sideways. I rushed home and cancelled a trip
To see a film, to read some poetry
But the reading was cancelled too. A waste
Of time, like so much is. Now I must flip
Open my car and pour in oil, or the
Engine will die. It’s desperate for a taste.
Sat 22 Mar 2008
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