Footballers in the park grow younger, play
longer into December nights. In my garden,
leaves decompose. Fogs rise to the window.
I see my father’s features in the glass.
Gulls are grave, funereal in their white
seriousness. Bad weather visitors,
fickle as spume-flecks, they flitter from grass
into heavy skies, craftsmen in gravity.
Winter is too human for comfort.
Natural we should shudder as darkness
drifts in sooner. Ice seasons carry home
truths on incisive air.