Short Spring

Abdul at the top of our street who runs the corner shop said spring was short. I looked again. I can’t ever remember marking my seasons from beginning to end in order to compare their length. Yet everybody else must. A long winter, a short winter, a long spring a short spring: Really, I’ve no idea? It’s all about summer I reckon. It’s a short spring cause we want summer so badly. It’s a long winter cause we want summer. It’s a long autumn cause we want summer. It’s a short summer cause we want a long summer. It’s a long summer because we want a longer summer. All English weather-talk is just repressed predilection to the giant golden globe above. We love it when it’s close and pine when it’s not. And when it goes away we chase it round the world like loons and once we’ve unpacked we lay beneath the golden tentacles and sigh. We’d hug it if we could. Mind how you go said Abdul. How right he was. How it does. And with a spring in my step I picked up my coffee and dissolved.

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