MOTHERING SUNDAY IN CAMBRIDGE

or, AN ODE TO BRITISH SUMMER TIME

Angels singing from Eden
Baptist Church — I don't know
about that — though definitely
birds singing outside in Grafton
Street at 5 a.m. where doors down
the young couple who've just moved in
are cooing like doves come first light
—— and later, on bikes, in Jesus' Green,
a mother and daughter singing — as they pass,
I hear my laughter as I read written
in cloud on the backs
of their sky blue coats — the words:
only the birds can sing.

Lion's Yard. 27 February.

This weekend the USA moves one hour closer to Europe. Meanwhile, at a higher latitude, darkness persists. Europe springs forth only at the end of March.

LION'S YARD. 27 FEBRUARY.

“Excuse me”, says the man with the lilting Northern* accent. “Can you tell me if this carriage pulls in closest to the station’s exit?”

“Most certainly”, says the woman whose voice has the hard edge of transplanted Scots. “Bang on.”

“It’s a long train!” says the man, emphasizing the word long.

“Fifteen carriages”, says she.

“People in the rear", he suggests, "must have to climb onto the platform.” The farther north you go on this line, the shorter the platforms become.

“Worse.” She says. “Sun sets before they make it this far.”

She’s not kidding. After a long, dark winter, late February days seem a godsend. Lion’s March has yet to advance on us. Until then, even longer days end quickly.

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*Like the USA, the UK has a North/South divide. The British North is the near equivalent of the American South.