November In The Rue De Mulhouse Poem by Tony Jolley

It’s heavy.
The kind of heavy you can’t carry,
Aching dull down deep to your marrow,
Weighing against all your good intentions and better inclinations,
Slouching your whole being steadily toward the ‘slow’ end of the spectrum,
Grey-washing your entire outlook on life
And synchronising you subconsciously
With Nature’s inaudible, yet inescapable, hibernal heartbeat.
Lethargic as the tired smoke that took one look at the sky
And decided that ‘up’ just wasn’t worth the effort;
As bored as the wind that had clocked off early and headed home
To its slippers and armchair by the fire.

As day’s go, this one seemed be staring Eternity full in the eye…
… And it wasn’t for blinking.