Haibun
A Spring
Gale
Yesterday the weather
changed. Until then it had been an unseasonably mild
March; the air was soft and sweet there was just the
faintest southerly breeze. In the gardens and parks
cherries, willows and ornamental plums had burst into
flower like pastel coloured fireworks. The mornings had
grown lighter and each daybreak brought wave after wave of
feverish birdsong.
They say that March comes in like a lion and out like a
lamb but in my experience the reverse often happens, so
yesterday, when the barometer plummeted and a harsh North
wind began to chase scraps of bruised and tattered clouds
across the sky, I wasn't surprised.
I left the office in good time, pulled on a jacket and
hat, both of which felt strangely unfamiliar after a
fortnight's absence, and walked with my head lowered
against the bluster to the local supermarket in order to
collect a few items for supper. Already, the roads and
pavements had a scattering of cherry blossom. In a few
short days, I mused, there would be none left on the
trees.
In the supermarket I happened upon an old friend whom I
hadn't seen for a number of years. He was queueing at one
of the little kiosks which in British stores are the place
where one buys cigarettes and tobacco. I remembered that
last time we had met he had given up smoking and was
extolling the virtues of his new, healthy lifestyle.
We exchanged pleasantries with a kind of formal good
cheer, both of us conscious that much time had passed and
that we had last parted on slightly uneasy terms. The
truth was that during my divorce, I had to all intents and
purposes disappeared. I just wanted to live in my own
shell with the sad result was that I had shunned some of
the people closest to me. Not overtly, you understand, but
I simply didn't have the energy to get in contact with
them and go through the same dreary story again and again.
He surprised and delighted me with the news that he was
now a grandfather - his daughter having given birth just
three months ago. We laughed about how swiftly time's
arrow flies.
I enquired after a mutual friend of ours, Michael, whom I
also hadn't seen for three of four years; the three of us
had spent many happy hours fishing and drinking together
in sunnier times.
'He's not too good,' he replied with typical English
understatement. 'Prostate cancer....got it in a couple of
places ....he's had it since last August.'
Knocked off emotional balance by this news I muttered
something cliched and inadequate, made a vague and
unconvincing promise to get together for a drink sometime
and left the supermarket hurriedly. As soon as I was alone
I felt pierced by an arrow of shame.
Outside the dusk had fallen and the streets were suffused
with a grainy monochrome.
The North wind continued to blow.
march gales—
wondering how much longer
the blossom can last
