Finding the Time is Hard

Finding the time is hard

at this season of the year.  The wind

clatters in a burst of spent leaves across the topstones

of the laneside wall, and icy drops spatter the screen;

the last stage of my journey, and already the light is failing.

I pass between the gateposts to park up, and watch

crows scattering like torn black rags

above the broken line of trees that tops the ridge.

Crows seem able to give themselves to be part of the storm,

while all I can do is turn my collar up, and keep my head down,

and lose my hold on time like the trees are losing hold of their leaves,

to be swept across the fields;  it will not be long

till nearly every curtain will be closed

before even I start my journey home.  It is as though

The dark were engaged in a two pronged attack, mounting

a pincer movement to squeeze the life out of the light.

The remains of the day have become skeletal and pale,

washed out like the trees through my rainy windscreen

now that the wipers have stopped.

I shall make my run for the door and my fireside chair,

to close the curtains, sit tight and

leave the world be, hibernate if I could; for anything more

finding the time is hard,

at this season of the year.