The winter here is proper, not like the weak attempts of childhood.
I put on one of my father's old records, and sinkdrown into the swirl of old memories - the scent of oil and wood his workshop the musicdrone of cicada's (that signaled the arrival of hot summer sweat and slick) the scent of musk mixed with coffee grinds and bodyperfume made sick with wine.
Old roofs in the distance - redwashed and orange by the blood of a dying sun, trickle blue smoke from the mouth of an ancient- Baal of cold nights Suburban Moloch.
Hands are turned palecold. Dove's once , dexterous fish now - white and roasting on the hot whisper from a cup of coffee, sometimes they (mechanically or artfully) invoke the means to my own blue trickle.
A time machine to that junkyard of stolen moments we christen "memory".
Yet the sun still bleeds and the sky is cauterised by it's sacrifice.