This Time of Year

(I wrote this poem c. 2013 in a Writing Group I attended at the Nottingham Buddhist Centre.)

Cold, this time of year.
Before evening it’s dark,
And oily puddles reflect,
And refract,
The stark sodium glare of the street-lights.
Standing in a doorway,
A woman with hard, hungry eyes,
Watches the world pass by:
As if it had nothing to do with her,
As if it were a movie
She’d seen before
And didn’t like the first time.

Dark, this time of year.
The days as cold as the nights.
The only place where it’s safe
And warm
Is in bed.
How I hate to get up!
To leave my house,
And drag myself to work.
But if I didn’t,
My house wouldn’t be mine
Much longer.
What else is there to do?
Accept the reality;
Embrace it –
And everything’s fine.

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