The season of deceitfulness calls me
out of my slumber with a clear blue sky
and flaming rose-gold sunrise, promises
of warmth in my bones and the inner glow
of new life. Calls me, thrills me; and leaves me,
hopes dashed by a silent army of grey
gliding surreptitiously over the blue,
smothering nascent gold in the vestige
of constant dull, tenacious cold, the wet
winter commitment unrivalled by spring’s
flighty capriciousness, playing the game,
the hide and seek game, well past its use by;
well past my capacity for belief;
igniting strategies of denial;
and yet. I still dream of the golden dawn
extending bright beams like welcoming arms.