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   (On the matter of weather)

A fluffy toy of a breeze, winding
pussycat-soft round the ankles
of the year, scampering
among spring-sprung lambs, jogging
the memories of songbirds.
Fine, says the farmer.

A blustering yob of a blow, bawling
brash invective, jeering
and whistling, fork-fingered, crouching
round corners, raring
to jab and run.
Fair, says the farmer.

A rabid dog of a north-easterly, tearing,
snarling and spitting down the fellside, howling
for the hell of it, savaging
for the sake of it.
Fresh, says the farmer.
A bit fresh.