and the forests will echo with laughter

if only, if only

instead a fine layer of persil snow was gathering on my coat as I walked home

can't stand the sight of that coat any longer, that and the mittens, the scarves, the lot

back home I am tearing at the zip, throw the coat onto the stairs

the cat jumps and hisses at me

we are so sick of winter.

The new Kurdish cleaner at work is singing. Because she is tired of this winter, she says. And maybe with singing... who knows. But it was a sad song. About loss and complications in love, so she tells me. There are no happy-come-on-spring songs in Kurdistan, at least she cannot remember any.

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now
It's just a spring clean for the May Queen

That's another song, a weird and convoluted one. 

Come on, come on, let's hear it, let's smell spring.