I wrote this a while ago, but it feels oddly appropriate for this time of year, when winter keeps telling us: ‘And another thing…’
If I make it through September, fold my pinnies, cool my forehead,
Don’t wait for gaps to be filled – there is no clemency
Left in any fibre.
If I make it through October, it won’t be for want of trying
To end the throb of left-side temple
Trapped flutter under the skin.
If November doesn’t bring morose companionship on wet flagstones
Where would my certainties drain?
They’d pool like ink on poor quality paper.
And if you can’t wait until December for my waxing sleight of mind
I waste my breath and months
Wondering why you never measure up.