Sunday, 29 November 2015

A Filthy Day

Rain lashing windowpanes, drumming on roofs.

A tap of the barometer, daily ritual.

Boots on.

A scouring, a howling, awakening.

A bare tree, wet black and bending.

The last leaves trembling. Small birds blown like scraps.

We march past puddles, the only pedestrians.

Glad to be out.

A great arc of seagulls, black against a torn sky.

Sheets of sleet.

Hard houses in rain-smudged rows.

The town illuminations, swaying in the storm.

Three o'clock and dark.

A bustle of scarves and coats in doorway.

Boiling kettle, steaming mugs.

1 comment:

blueskyscotland said...

I like that one and it's the type of poem that seems to win poetry competitions.