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WINTER

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.

 

 

 Note: The poem was first published on the site in December 2013.

 

 

© Copyright David Selzer
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3 Responses
  • Mary Clark
    December 29, 2018

    I like the haiku quality of this.

  • David Selzer
    December 29, 2018

    Thank you, Mary. Yes, it is haiku like. I hadn’t noticed that. Feedback is so insightful.

  • Jenny Copley-May
    January 3, 2019

    Brilliant evocation of winter. Gulls are just like that.

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