Smudged yellow light at dawn suggests a cold snap.
On this new route to work, trees fluster with russet leaves;
the snug stone of a church, village cottages, a vinegary
purple
line up like opportunities beyond barbed-wire fences
snaggled with accidental wool scrapings from sheep.
Flowers still bloom. Or seedheads flaunt their ochre fruitfulness.
Keats looms – but then buses pass, aircraft wheel in
and the great long winter opens up between the clouds.
