Winter is coming and
things are happening
out of sight.
The magpie has flown,
his bread crusts lie sodden in the yard.
Lovers have left the footpaths,
and porch swings are growing cobwebs.
The child with a laugh like a solar flare
no longer swings and slides in the park.
She has gone , growing older
somewhere in the darkness.
The brick faces of buildings
have turned away, warming their insides
with a love that gathers and pools
and concentrates. Soups simmer, pages turn,
feet run down the stairs.
The sun sets early and one by one
the curtains are drawn, the stars rise,
the birds return home.
