In October’s chill crescendo,
two cats sniff a heated vortex of air
left by a scurrying mouse,
which must have run from here to there,
across their butcher’s floor.
Assassins in the night,
the severed head and a mysterious twist of bowel
are artfully left on a kitchen tile:
sashimi.
In fear of November’s dwindling kills,
two crow-missiles converge on a hovering hawk.
The three twist away,
six wings, three dots, a bleak sky
before the crows’ casual, cocksure return
to gloat in the gloomy, greying trees,
to watch, as I drive home,
with the scraping rhythm of a windscreen wiper
juddering its complaint
of too much grit and a misty rain.
And the news is good.
In fear of winter in an unheated house,
the season’s glory has been unveiled.
A hulk, it dominates the room, a domesticated beast.
A refuge! A commander of the night!
Behold! The Winter Duvet is amongst us!
Two great packed sacks
of down and feathers,
fixed together,
it presses down
and you and I are under the slumbering bear.
The winter night is conquered here.
Vixens screech in the woods,
as the wind fingers at the roof-slates
that lie over the room, it hoods
and enfolds the blankets in gloom.
We lie, under the suet wrapping’s weight.
And together we sleep, united we dream,
with loaf-like stillness, for a half-night in the bakery.
Then as one we rise up: a surfacing whale
at a darkly dislocated four twenty five,
and we touch, we entwine
we’re locked, fevered, and with energy climb
to the peak of our conjoined desires.
Then idle, in a neutral gear,
we each think: “Is it me, or is it hot in here?”
And I hope that you’re more awake than I,
that you’ll open the window,
for a sub-zero sigh from the night
is all that we need now to carry us through
to the dawn.
WE HAVE A STAND-OFF EVERY YEAR: who will be the one to put the heating on, as England’s temperature meanders between cool and freezing? In our house, hardship is a virtue. (OK, in my mind, hardship is a virtue, and somehow everybody else is buying into it, too.) But nobody regrets finally putting the boiler back on and snuggling into the autumn nights. I love when seasons change, the year reaches its flex-point and, to quote Pulp’s sublime David’s Last Summer, I lean heavily into “the whole sound of summer packing its bags and preparing to leave town”.
Enjoyed this post? Feeling generous?
THE SCENE: You return from the counter in our favourite café, place a latte on my table, maybe even cake. We do not talk – we may talk some other time – but nevertheless you’re so… gratified!… to have given me a small token of your warm regard 😍, encouraging me to keep writing. Plus, the glow of tribute! You are a Patron Of The Arts! You pick the amount, from the price of a coffee:
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Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.