A Reading Of Minus Five Poem by Robert Wylie

A reading of minus five,
The first cold of Winter
Hammers the fishermen
Into their stools,
Folding them
Like badly struck nails, into the mud.

Cars on the road
Slither more cautiously,
Like blackened roaches
Caught in a scrub fire.
And the usually generous streetlights
Seem more reluctant
To illuminate the scene.

A reading of minus five,
After the late Autumn mildness,
And the few remaining leaves
Fall to, finally, herald Winter
As King-successor
To the seasonal throne.

The tyrant days are here,
With brown banners flying
At the gale's whim.