Grimbeau

Lights going out around here. It will be soon.

Two disconsolate blackbirds hop and wobble

on the lumpy lawn of mud runs,

wet dark brown leaves,

and old dog turds of autumn.

Swift smoke streams, light grey wafts

and heavy laden, leaden clouds

rush on the blasting, frantic wind.

Stoic conifers and bare trees bend

and unbend, weave, give and lean.

The rosebush drips heavy fruit, unsteady silver water.

The hens gather silent in their hovel.

Safe as a puffball in a hotpress

wise beggars under feather sacks

in a draughty corner on a damp straw floor.