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.

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

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