Now the light drains to bleak, the crow
        Like an oil pump pounds its beak
        Into stiffened turf of fall, bloody
        Factories & idle bones,
        Stacks, paths depeopled;
        No afternoon, it's done, the moon
        Blows in, the leaves now long
        Since gone: face the loss,

        The length of the cold.
        Smouldering embers
        In stoves, gusts, angst utterly November's,
        The will wrestles gutsily, splinters
        Winter lungs cough, yields
        Charred thoughts of a thaw far off.

Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.