April is the cruelest month-

Today will be the last warm, sunny day we’ll have for the rest of the week, so says the BBC. While walking Pickles today I thought of the Philip Larkin poem, Days.

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

That poem always makes me smile.


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