The chattering of the crowds
Longing for a heat,
Skin puckering with a single, lingering cold breeze
Yet soaking the warmth like a treat.
A smell of spring
Blended with freshly cut grass,
Walkers swaying happily
Becoming mobs, a giant chattering mass.
Blooms in the not too bitter wind
The mingling of fresh desires,
The world breathes a sigh of relief
As the shrivelled become fires.