Winter

Sad dregs  of
Rain sliding down at the
Window-glass
A  steady streaming curtain
Of  silt, a backdrop
To  silence, it wilts on itself, this weak
Water  dulling to black
Liquid sheets
All the colour bled free
To  leave opacity.

The  room  itself is pink
Feint warmth
Even  the fire is cold.

Dry  and brittle
Like twigs left
Too  long near heat
The  occupant sits
Charred  to the chair
Sticky and black
Breath  blooming in
The  air.

The  little death of the
Soul goes  unnoticed
In  the downpour.
No-one  there to care.

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