I called it tonight,
gushing triumphant through nostril and eyes –
the burnt forest-woody sharpness
of a dead summer.
The wind glissading the streets
turfing ears into hats;
and all the trees become un-fattened
as they diet into decay.
I saw it first I thought.
Winter is coming.
White Walkers on Little Heath;
time to unscrew the wardrobe again.
To grab my coat,
the five-year old jumpers,
the Grandma knitted socks,
layering the months to come.
That first night of shocked air,
as knotted as steel in the timepiece,
as cold too,
under the hood of the summer seal.
I called it tonight
on my walk home.
Happy as a frosted face
Nearing the burning centre.
Copyright © Stefan Parker 2018
Born in Germany and residing just north of the M25. Daily experimenter of poetry in all forms. Published and practising writer and filmmaker.