June is actually the cruelest month. She teases me into a lilac summer dress then tricks the cardie from my back. I’ll show you fear in a thin cotton dress caught in town in a thunder storm.
I head to the brown fog of Costa. To sit it out, write some words. And there a wise woman divines from her window seat throne; without cards & over a cake spilling cream, it’ll soon pass.
Except it doesn’t.
I’ll have to go to the pound shop for some inner peace and a brolly that probably won’t even last the journey home.