Crossing the path between March and
April
An unexpected gust of turbulent wind
Lifts the wreckage of my smoke white hair
Raggedly into a halo,
Backlit by the sun.
I take a selfie - then wince at the result -
No scarecrow could ever look as wild as I do
This blustery morning - the dawn birds
disallowing the quiet
I had lately learned to cherish
In the wintry months
When I sat nose deep in books.
I laugh at my preposterous appearance
Recorded far too candidly by my camera, then
swipe it quick to trash.
When I was young I was often neater and sprucer
than any Pre- Raphaelite Angel.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
30th. March 2023.
