Early autumn in this
city bares her
complex beauty.
No showy coat of
reds and golds here.
The Southerly has not
yet arrived and the
harbour is a flat
slick slate.
At home mist is
channeling through
Berhampore from
the Strait and across
to Brooklyn. The sea
is grey, the sky is
grey and the mountains
have turned their
flanks to sulk
behind a curtain.
I would feel better
about this flux, the
clocks set back for
the year, the dip
in the temperature,
but my body aches
for sun and warmth
and in the absence of
both demands rest.
Today I will cower
beneath a blanket
and be gentle on
myself. All reckoning
can wait until
tomorrow.
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