The move to winter always jolts
despite it being marked on the calendar,
this annual trauma, jouncing in
so soon after September.
I shop for hoodies, sweater,
read articles on hot water bottles,
phone my mother and bemoan my age –
was I ever cold as a child? Doubtful.
Windows remain closed; dust breeds.
Mornings are a closed coffin.
Kenneth Owens is an occasional writer and reviewer with full-time imposter syndrome, residing in Northern Ireland.