The rattle of a moped,a continental sound
heard in this cold city.
It revs and revs,
picks up speed.
It is not winter.It is not autumn.
Cold is a foe. It getsinto the body,
the blood and bones.
Turns roadsinto rinks.
Wait here, will you?
Need to scrape this ice
from the screen.
Sounds like a saw
Breath wells in misty wreathes to garland the lights glowing from the dash.
My eyes keep getting drawn to the ragged tree with its tatter of leaves.
Yellow, lime, brown.
The bark is almost black wearing its sheen of damp moss and lichen.
The spire on the churchis a rocket. One day soon
it will leave the earth.