Dry autumn leaves swirl and scrape the pavements
Making a sound like a drummer’s brush on a hi-hat,
A furious wind pours out from the dirty grey sky
Like a distant deity hurling insults at unruly mortals,
Winter is almost here, swirling over these tall towers
Gusting around the next corner, following me down pitiless laneways
Through alleyways of lost hope, across the grief-swept mall,
Past façades of shining buildings leaning over long hungry lines,
Following me across the road, in the dark, through the park
To my desolate bench where icy fingers grip my bony ribs
And curl up beside me
