The clocks have just gone back, it’s dark at five.
As I walk around the grounds,
The ghosts of sodium fireflies flicker faintly
And dance obliquely in my lenses;
Their earthly counterparts though are still,
They move only when I move,
And they burn fiercely, yellow and orange,
Dispelling here and there the glooming
Of the gloaming.
The mist is unseen, but not unfelt,
My face is moist, as is my coat,
The wind is faint, and the leaves
Rustle gently in the breeze through the trees,
Their last fling before they brown and fall
Leaving skeletons of wishbone to brave the winter winds.
The night is damp without,
And within
Is grey yet dark as blackest sin;
The sky is a shroud
Obscured by cloud,
And as my shoes squelch dully into the soft, muddy grass
I am an exile from Eden,
The last man in the world
In search of a dry room and a warm bed.
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