I feel the cold these days

Ancient moons where highway tunes claim those gone on the, ‘speechless seeking trails’ from yesteryear’s world.
No funeral dirge for lost friends disappeared into that horizon, unless the sun has memories, their goneness has Passchendaele finality.

Now in these evening years I wait, where autumn’s gate meets a frozen meadow, and human kind strive with secrets, in the ice-cold gutter of their hearts.
I hear a chanting voice at the workman’s door of hell trying to sell ice cream; cancer threatens England’s life vast indifferent crowds wait hungry.

I feel the cold these days.

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