Brighton Winters
January creeps in slowly; it brings grey veils with it,
from the sea. We dress our moods to match,
withdrawn and bitter, waxing stout, ailing in the gutters.
The frigid air can hold no welcome now.
I miss the days when waves of tourists mob the Brighton rocks
and beach their heaving bodies on the shore.
Now, pebbles rattle and crack like old bones,
the breeze bites your cheek with icicle teeth,
chattering in the streets.
The pavement’s slick with black ice, grass glitters
in cold beds under dusty sheets, brittle to the tread
of your slowly numbing feet.
These are the months in which Brighton winters;
gulls hang in shifting skies as though from strings,
and starlings fly like shattered mirror-shards.
