November Ember Poem by Mark Hamilton

Dull afternoon sky
like a bruised fruit;
leaves peeling off the trees like
unplayed notes,
discarded sweepings
in a world's
tough gloom.

Cold air pushes round
carrying warnings of more
and other cold:
what could be, what will be,
what does, my friend…

At least it's warm inside - today.

What else may be may not be known,
not by you, not by the darkness
that steadily falls, wraps itself
round everything it finds
like a scarf full
of wide ironic
holes