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Winter;
the sun that sets earlier in a gray-blue splendor while the leaves rest, brown, on the cold white. Dead.
It's the time of rushed and poorly done homework, when you thought about the gift list,
and when seven o'clock came you watched cartoons on Odeon.
The five o'clock chocolates in the afternoon, gazing out the window
at the bare woods, and the white peaks.
A woodland fruit tea and two coarse malt biscuits.
A winter melancholy,
fresh snow trip hop and lulling electronics.
It's the present living in the past, the season of rest that begins with the memory of the dead.
Soon it will be cold enough and all this will return, inevitably
this year too.
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