This Sort of Thing...





Nine months are quite enough

They can keep the other three

Frosty mornings brittle, cruel

Fog pilfers trees and gardens

That self-inflicted genocide

Crimes of nature's icy Roundup


They can keep their autumn hues

The only colour my eye sees

Is the black that’s cast upon us

From November, in the afternoons

Astronomical I suppose

Deep in my mind, dark hurts


Winds tear at face, hack flesh

Freeze blood, chill brain and bone

I suffocate in boots and coats

Frigid fingers grip and rip my throat

Or I choke on foetid brumal dank

Give me daylight or I’ll scream!


The year’s eventide’s upon us

Nothing left to do but sleep

So wake me in the morning

When sanity comes marching home

When winter's only weeks away

At the other end of the world



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