Late In Winter
Snowdrops white-flare in sun: overcast they embrace a wistful prettiness.
The sky is gathering dark: into the cold pool of sky: clouds are beginning to dissolve.
We are working in a school while the old town hall hosts a musical production. It smells like soap; fake floral, somehow reassuring. Outside, the last winter month splices into spring. In here; the lunch benches, the climbing bars, the bold childish brushstrokes on thick paper, the wires that hang from the back of a stereo; that clean scent.
The last class gather in through the fire doors, in from the night.