Dear Spring,

Thunder. Then sun. Dust cloud. Fog. And the wind. Yes, you, Spring. You blow hot and cold.

Beach scene with buggy and seagulls

You blow hot and cold. Laura Eades 2012

You’re very up and down.

You’re a seasonal tease.

One minute you’re whispering hocus pocus – and up! pops a crocus.

And the next you shrug and say Sod It, and there’s frozen solid dogshit round the trees.

You’re so unstable. You know, it could even snow in April! (It did last year. For this better one I was grateful).

Everything’s budding and beaming and blooming–People on their bikes go zooming by. The birds tweet, and then you cheat me out of my summer clothes with 8degrees and sleet.

You had me Marching down the paths of the park. You ignited an urge in me to see the sea; to feel it roar; to get out out out into the great outdoors.

When the fog lifts you need sunglasses. When it lowers, mainly lozenges. The only thing springy suddenly is my mattress–a stint in bed with a hotwaterbottle and curses; chicken soup; everything flavoured with ginger. Hailstones on the skylights. Peals of thunder.

And then… bright! Boingg! You spring on me one of your great surprises. One of those days, when the air tastes like it’s been through the wash. Crispy freshly-ironed light. Earlier mornings. Suddenly salad appetises. You dazzle me out of a siesta, and get me skipping, nearly, with your promise that this one’s gonna be a humdinger.

Boinggg! Dingg! I don’t trust you. But you can ring my doorbell any day, and I’ll let you in.