Rag Remnants

And now the leaves will go,

Already frost-damaged in January.

Here are those sly, black birds

Gliding nearby.

They’ll peek and peck

Until the shivering stalks of branches,

Quivering cold,

Lose all their early buds.

And what’s to come?

Rag remnants, perhaps,

All torn to lace.

The ducks are flying over Deptford.

Their quacks blend in with traffic noise,

Small shadows

In an amber sky.

The city skyscapes

Show distant crags in an endless sea.

All is grey and sinister
Just on the edge of churning.