London Poetry Review

 

This wintertime the dusk closes on us,
the day flickers down and memory says
it’s time to remember and time to praise
the whirled wheel’s twistings, and all is done us.

This wintertime the great buzzards gather
as the grand inadequate bugle calls
the lights from the distance, and night appalls
each lover and child, father and mother.

Wintertimes we ready us for travels,
remember the beginning, remember
the endings and the touch of cool ember
and remember the touch that unravels.

Wintertime we’ve deprived us of solace
listening for the voice that will call us.