March was a crazy year.

After the rains we were safe

or so we had assumed.

The era of weather as pleasure

is past and I spent this day

mooning over the poems

I squandered when I left

the laptop to update.

Snatches come back

(but only as a sense of presence)

and you try affirmating

yourself that it’s all deposited

into the great cosmic bank

of sit at desk and do the work

when time passed gilds the lost.

And it’s hard to grieve when

you can’t inventory what’s gone.

But amidst the missing I found

this poem, that’s something,

despite myself in my Sunday shed

remembering Toots Hibbert

bv letting Lenny Henzell

highlight the finest shades

of after shower sunshine.

Some clichés antiquate glacially.

My mates all make fun of

what will soon be ended

while I can’t even make sense

of what I can salvage.