Lost in Pylons and Poplar Trees

For some reason I'm thinking of those strange days between winter and spring. A lost season, shoved sideways in time. Leaks through sometimes; days of white sky (looking through branches at leaden clouds), Sunday afternoons sinking to evening, thinking of fields lined by pylons and poplar trees, a certain kind of English cold, both savage and dreamy.
I don't know who lost this season, some absent minded god who let it fall through divine fingers. Perhaps it was lost purposefully for this season means most when found, either accidentally or consciously, or maybe the season means most when it is not found, and its absence leaves a shadow, vulpine and drowsy, that watches you as you start to dream of it.
If, in springtime, in the days when this lost season should be, you lie on a bed by an open window at the ends of the afternoon, you can taste it on the air. Tastes like shadowy valleys and tilted alleys, and all those childhood myths you thought you'd never believe in again.