Marching on Fragments

The sky is pale, or blue, and the sun is bright, and looking at all this from behind windows, it all seems warm. That wind though. That wind does not welcome, cuts through like needles, some knife shifted back from winter. Skin-scratch, ice-tattoo, March-wound.
Wound up like the clocks waiting for British Summer Time. How long now till the clocks go forward? Or Back?
I can't remember which.
Time seems so messed up this time of year.