I don’t think depressive thoughts
I think November thoughts
Which string me up in circles
Like old fish-hooks
And which are a beautifully implacable shade of grey,
As fleetingly preoccupied as candyfloss skies
I think November thoughts
Which sometimes bear me gold
But frost with self-centred cynicism
And waltz like raindrops, trying to be romantic
I think November thoughts
Which are tired and wearing thin
Nostalgic for their future.
Not quite December
But too old for June.