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January

Individual leaves hang like dead men

So many corpses from an autumn cull

Their weight, lightly suspended from the boughs

Await the final drop into the pool

          Of mud and mucus, melted where it lies.

Across grey swathes of marshland, morning mists

Ooze and bite the tired commuters' ears

Drifting back to work after a week

Of too much drink, no exercise and fears -

          In spite of all the crackers and mince pies -

That weeks now wait inert before the sky

Will welcome them with light as they leave home

And early morning warmth will creep down roads

Now damp, silent and endless before dawn

          Awaiting their salvation from the skies.

Brian Hick January 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 2.1.23