It's March.  The face of March is pasty, a pale and unhealthy grey and its clouds are a mottled beard, scruffy and ill kempt.  The grass is a sickly yellow, the sod clogged with rain and the runoff of melted snow.  March struggles towards spring as its wind woefully sings around the buildings, stirring tattered brown leaves that were never collected from corners and crevices but spent the winter huddled against fences and frozen into puddled soil.

It's empty.  Nothing has life in it, nothing owns beauty.  The sea is a mirror, flat and currentless, reflecting stone walls and weatherbeaten structures whose white paint bears marks that are the only evidence of winter's ice and summer's drying sun, for there is nothing extreme in this day.  The tide has come full and placid and lies just beyond my feet at the edge of the bridge.  I remember suddenly a dream of a few days past, the water finally lapping over the edges of the road and pooling at my feet.  I want to call out to it, plead with it to wash over and engulf me, to fill the emptiness of my soul.  But the sea knows its bounds and keeps them, and leaves me standing, alone.

 The sky looks upon me though, and in understanding it sheds empathetic tears.  I think one fell upon my cheek, yet it is warm.  Sister drops join it and it is lost.