Warmth is folded away as unwilling prey,
Wrapped in worn, fading memories,
Swathed in subtropical musings.
Warmth is stashed in a den by Orion’s bard,
By the hunter that swallows the sun.
Dread the cold that stalks the night.

Falling from above, a powdery veil;
To mask an ageing coat,
To cloak a pursuing remnant,
To hide an excited pace-
Shed from Sirius’ mane.

The sky is miserable,
Full of grey emptiness save for that pallid golden lamp.
Mocking with its gloriously worthless blazingly bright nothingness.
Offering pretentious promises of sweet nothings –
Cruel deceit of the darkest mind, of the dimmest kind.

Dread the air, and its claws
Its jagged shards that rip and tear
Every gulp a yielding to flared nostrils,
A flurry of motion,
Jabs and buffets and bites.

Little heart, little heart,
Won’t you let me come in?
It huffs…
And it puffs…
And it blows…
Ergo, it all comes down.