Poem: Cold Autumn Days

 

The mornings of ice have roared in suddenly now.
The breath of autumn turning from summer memory to winter herald
in the space of a few short days.
No time to acclimate, if that were even possible;
the long warmth vanished into the pale clear sky.

Woodsmoke rises and mushrooms creep across the grass
and getting out of bed has become a matter of will rather than instinct.
The first morning tasks once again to set the rice pot cooking 
and put on both the heaters, while my toes curl imploringly inside the not-enough slippers.
Rousing cat and dog for their morning medications is a difficulty,
as they wind their bodies into helixes, bolstering against the chill.

Today is a day for thermal vests and lambs-wool socks;
for heatpacks and finger gloves, scarves and puffer jackets.

A little later, the warm rice and fresh egg, the hot tea, provides a moment of comfort
before the run to the station for my daughter's workday, shivering from door to door
let's take the big car today, I say, it has the heated seats
and she, usually so eager to drive her own small car for extra practice, doesn't demur
folding her body into the front seat with a little complaining sigh
at the coolness of the leather before the heating kicks in.

On the playing fields and in the parklands: the grass shimmering with frost
white crystals under a heatless morning sun
and the birds flying away.

Home again, more tea, and a sympathetic wince at the temperature readings
from my Tasmanian friend, who lives in a bus
with all that implies, as the stony fist of winter closes in on us.

So we are for the dark, oh yes:
the long cold nights are here, stretching fingers deep into daylight
until we arrive at the bone-cracking, muscle-aching days in the year's centre

and we are for the dark, and yet
the sun still shines on in the angel blue sky
promising ease before the freezing

even if just for a while,
even if just for today.