Winter Blood (Poetry)

What depressing days are these? —
that start so late and end so early —
the half-light slants between tired trees
the sky frowns vague — thin-clouded grey and surly
no warmth in anything — the air cold-fingered
and frost sits like a ghost where dimness lingers.

Dark hours drag their feet —
slow the clock whose aging spring undreaming
ticks the minutes by — unmeasures sleep
until it seems the shadows all are leaning —
tall and black — a forest thickly tokened —
its tracks untrod — long silence stretched — unbroken.

The glow of Christmas gone
December limps — its train now torn and soggy
the stale cake scattered on the lawn
for bird and mouse and starving feral moggy —
the leavings of a year drawn near to closing
the heart beats slow — the winter bloodstream dozing.