Tied to a sliding scale of fug and frost
Trapping the day in a dark parenthesis
With grey grim cloud banks built for rainfall
Prompting the seasoned family man to pile
The felled trees’ log heap nearer to the door,
So great is the longing for fire and warmth, and look!
The stars rear up in a sudden span of darkness.
The harvest over, day and night divided
Without our say so brazenly changing life
In hot red leaf and twigs that, newly cold,
Burst from the vanished sensual screen, ideas
Pencilled upon the pale paint of a wall.