It is bitter for April. Car windows are up.
The mossed gutter, at my friend's stables, is down.
As I tramp up the field the first rain stings my eyes.
Flash and squeak. Pony jumps. The swallows are back,
They swerve through the half-doors
If you've any comment on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.