First Cold Day
by Ben M Rymer
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Print Save Become a Fan
As our seats for winters Panzer-attack
Scuttle over Wiltshire, the sibilant chill snarls
We, ignored incidentals, trundle through the wind-din,
Seasons erupting around us. The sabre-blade ether
Is alive with a brittle sheen:
Out bows autumn,
Rusty umber intermediary,
Whose exit leaves motion forbidden
In the absolute-zero stillness, edgy
Like a pre-brawl bar, its tension
Permeating the train.
The leaves auburn inferno,
Al fresco, sweep back to the skyline:
Giant black spiders of birds nests rest
In the dew-shot light around their wooden webs.
On the platform,
Diesel stained air astonishes
And feels brittle.
One season has ruptured into another
Whose Roman man-of-war spikiness
And pre-gene vernacular are more than familiar,
More than known.
Here, in the trenches of the warring seasons
The cutting gusts are gunfire
And settling snowflakes the embodiment
Of eleventh hour armistice.