Pool on the sill

I hear it’s November
but the rains sound the same

The birds, I hear
and see as they drink from puddles

I hear my radiators
clicking, groaning
so it must be a chilly November
but it all feels the same

I see it’s grey out there
and suddenly the birds are silent
as I watch dribbling condensation
pool on the sill

I swim in that pool
and feel a tremendous hankering
to evaporate.

this, December thing

~

As cobwebs grow while we sleep
so does this thing
this, December thing …

How it throttles, suffocates and destroys
how it becomes a pestilence within the silent beats of winter
this, December thing …

The emptiness of broken promises
echoes from the sorrows of children to the sorrows of
this, December thing …

How it settles within bones, upon skin and like a question of blood
how it envelops with its pretence of realism
this, December thing …

Each movement choreographed to make belief believable
while deep in the bowels of truth it festers
this, December thing …

How it seduces, enchants and dazzles
how its cosy fireside warmth births solicitous souls
this, December thing …

Like the chill of death’s cowl
it touches memories with sparks of things long gone, long lost
this, December thing …

How it breathes with such passion, beauty and an evanescence of time
how it reaches in to kiss with the sublime heaviness of falling feathers
this, December thing …

~

How I wish … but this … this December thing, cuts my soul to pieces …