I turn the clock hands one hour forwards. The cat curled on the couch regards me with slit-eyed indifference as her suitor serenades her from the back garden. Spring is otherwise silent.
Trees flaunt their blossom, like a young girl performing handstands up against a blue wall of sky and revealing frilly pink knickers.
Upstairs on the bus, I journey home in sunlight, which floods the deck with golden syrup and sticks my eyelids shut.
I watch a TV documentary, which links the evolution of the eye to the expansion of the universe. A radio out of tune plays a crackling echo of the Big Bang. Sound is just another way of seeing.
And this was meant to be a poem, but there is pollen in the cavities of my skull. I feel I want to cry: like cracking open an Easter egg and stealing Smarties a month too soon. I cannot turn the hands that far.