I ponder the etiquette of nursing a pint

and whether some might find it impolite

if I made it last just little while longer that I

might watch the rain that crawls on the steamed windows

making broken ghosts of every passer by

each of them eager to avoid

catching the eye of the living and I wonder

which one of them broke winter’s heart such as to make it

so bitter

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this autumn morning

winter’s aperitif

is served on the rocks

shaken and stirring

come downpour now

unleash your jotting scribe and

cast the showery runes of fables untried

forge scripts along our droughty lanes

of songs for all that yet remain

or wash away those pages brown,

whelm witness to our temporal sway

we’ll listen to the eager eart...

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the sea is rattling bones today

and the wind holds my ears to ransom

for want of a scarf and a hat

she is walking on the promenade

and wants no part of the play

so I am talking to the man on the pier

with the rods and ask

“what’s your game?“

whiting

and if he’s lucky

bass

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the coldest nights are the quietest

though the litter chatters around my feet

like the arctic teeth of an almost corpse

and the gas settles close to home

glassy in it’s  welcome

the trees, taut, still brittle of bone,

clench every desperate sinew

as fleshless fingers on a wintered birch

gnarl a carpal tunnel to the council’s moon

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