Winterman Poem by Matt Mooney

Winterman

I do not like you Winterman,
walking slowly towards me
with your long black coat
brushing against the bushes,
black as well this evening.

It's your fault you old timer,
you stole the leaves of gold
and sent the sun to bed early,
donning your broad grey hat
for Halloween above us all.

Driving the grey road ribbon,
leaving Abbeyfeale behind,
headlights on at half past five
against your onward march -
dipping downhill to Duagh
through descending darkness,
ever trying to creep over me;
a rising string of street lights
up a glenside football village,
each orange glow my beacon.