This is the season
when time dips its wings
and calls back its black shroud
of night,
tying tight corners around
the wuthering day,
the muted heart.

This is the cold breath of year
when days are dogged by damp
and dark,
when leaves fall and trees stand bare
and bleak
before the fallowing sun.

This is nature’s repose.

Let the roots that bind me
to the season
follow its call
into deeper paths,
finding succour in the stillness,
rest in the emptying days.


The rain is steady.
Grey holds the day
between its cold shoulders.
Time is slowing
as leaves sow themselves
onto the ground,
waiting to turn into earth again.


The sun is a bowl
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.

Clouds are my weather

the sky is filled with cloud,
not a blanket grey
that hugs the sky close
so the air seems dimmed
by the bruise of it,
but a duvet of down
in tumbling clusters of grey
and walkways of white,
clotting and frothing
like foam, like cream,
a sheet of cotton wool
spread overhead
to mop up the spilled sun,
scrunched from its spun silver
like cold candyfloss.

Feather bed

Give me a feather bed
to lounge the winter in
and a down duvet
to snuggle to my ear.