I need the snows to come now

Their chill already in the air

And it seems fitting

That it should be now

That the blindness swells from the skies

And buries the summer

And what it was


I walk down the pavement, grey, dead

Poetic almost in its practicality

Noble, they might say, earthy

But synthetic

Its sharp contrast with the green expanse

Is shocking.

The lopsided knoll that claims to be a park

Breaks into graves

(No shit)

It can't be healthy


A little to metaphorical for my liking

The glossy balls of childhood gold

Slip beneath my feet

And I trip, catching myself with the tree

Which sheds its load on me

And now I smell of autumn

And woodsmoke that mingles

With the 6B scent that

Lingers round my hair

Where I have run my marked fingers through it

Whore to the Art Rooms that I am


The grass melts into the frost ridden churchyard

And I shiver as a grave brushes me

So old it's unreadable

So derelict as to be illegible even to the records

I should think

I move a little faster

And pull my coat tighter.

Its cold enough

I need the snows to come