The gale brandishes my big glass
in its frame, its streaming face.
I watch December driven to its early dark.
Darker still in this room where sun
might gloss through tangy geraniums

the bookshelves' long faded opera.
But not today. Draft on draft ooze
their mazy scribble across the floor.
Cats rightly doze on puzzled artifice.
The desklamp bulb has a frigid stare.

This mouldwarp's petite civilisation
falls at a loss before the last charge
of the year. Or so it seems.
I hear the metal gate going tut-tut-tut.
Opening or closing, I can't tell.

Leaping to the phone, I twist an ankle
...