April doesn’t rain.
We have spent days watching
the truant magpies comb
our cat-eyed neighbour’s lawn
for bottle caps and burnt-out tin foil.
The cloying sun has not coaxed you
from your wood-wormed chair,
and I have just stabbed one more notch
in my buffalo leather belt.

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Ralf Webb is reviews and assistant poetry editor at Ambit Magazine. He was recently highly commended in the Faber New Poets scheme.