The fog unrolls itself from hill to tarmac
like winter blinds. It sinks behind hedges
and hovers, hawk-like, over the canal.

A streetlight winks from the path,
muffled by ***** white like a child
smothered in his new winter coat.

The trees have given up for the year
leaving mushy browns and crisp yellows,
sweet damp smell pushed up noses.

Morrison’s is open till ten now.
Piles of pumpkins watch in sorrow,
waiting for homes next to plastic spiders.