Fruit stones pitted line crunching underfoot
White-blossomed heavy hung
Drooping wearily from poor laden branches
Looping down as lips arched
By unhappy smiles.
The pleasant air smells sweet
With moistened due
Heavily scented with efflorescence.
This morning tired lungs breath heavy sighs
Whilst the last fattened bumbling bee deigns to tire itself
One final flight towards the risen reddened crested sun.
Light seems dimmed
A hazy glow
Like fuzzed pink candy-floss scattered gingerly amongst
Our white clouds.
These small steps shall soon be
Amongst earth-coloured leaves
Left to rot upon cobbled streets
Moist and ready for their snowy coats.