a fifty first poem...'the winter road'

The old low light, pale winter sun, the old low light, soft yellow flames, fallen leaves of red and brown, before the purple dusk, the winter road, hard and grey, the cold stones underneath your feet, hushed houses, silent suppers, quiet outside in the old low light, the open sky streaked with orange, a collared dove on a bare branch, in a garden where the weeds have died back, the winter road, your footsteps on the hard, grey stone, hushed houses, a whiff of wood burning, wood-smoke wafting from a red brick chimney, the low light on the terrace roofs, peeling paint on a blue front door, your old house, where there were dreams, the winter road, your first love, and your last, the only one who could ever tease you, a face framed in a single pane window, quiet outside, red and brown leaves crowding in the gutter, your footsteps muted, another Sunday slipping away before the purple dusk, hushed houses, curtains drawn, the winter road, your hands in your gloves in your pockets, a sweet wrapper, your first love, soft yellow flames, orange streaks in the open sky, the bare branches, twig fingers of a beech hedge, the hawthorns, haw-frost in the morning, the afternoon becoming evening, a couple in their coats pass by, your first love, and your last, the winter road silent but for retreating footsteps, on the cold stone, a broken branch from a young tree, the chill in the still air, your breath, condensation on the inside of a single pane window, hushed houses, silent suppers, logs for the fire, a garage door open in the gathering purple dusk, the old low light on the low edges, corners of buildings retiring, long thin shadows, the winter road, parked cars, ice on wind-shields, your hands in your gloves in your pockets, Sunday slowly Sunday, your first love, the blue front door, her head on the pillow, hair across her face, naked shoulders, the cold stones underneath your feet, the open sky, her dark eyes, where there were dreams, fallen leaves of red and brown, a newspaper trodden into the hard ground, yesterday’s news, today is Sunday slowly Sunday, the afternoon becoming evening, the purple dusk descending, and you still care, and people don’t understand, your first love, the winter road.