Winter calls, or at least

the two week crush of bon accord

where the crush of last minute purchase

to secure favours in the coming

year are packed in so tight that there is no

escape from it all, the relentless must get this,

sprout after sprout after washed down, forced down

holding nose down sprout, cooked to death, force fed death

as the gargle and false puke noises outrank the endless

television adverts for the hot summer climes…

winter calls,

I don’t answer, not for the first two weeks anyway,

I hide in my shell and ignore the knock on the door,

my transport goes away into the cupboard,

the shoes underneath the gig t shirts

and the last of the deodorant

goes into hiding, surviving purely on soap;

hibernation is the key, none of the winter storms

hopefully touching me then when January 6^th finally appears

I venture

tentatively into the world anew,

to start all over again, the rush of spring ahead.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016