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.
Mary Clark
December 29, 2018I like the haiku quality of this.
David Selzer
December 29, 2018Thank you, Mary. Yes, it is haiku like. I hadn’t noticed that. Feedback is so insightful.
Jenny Copley-May
January 3, 2019Brilliant evocation of winter. Gulls are just like that.