by John Grey
Is it just me or are the summers
growing shorter, the winters longer?
Have I become nothing more
than an inveterate weatherman,
disbelieving what the television,
newspaper says, believing only .
in the forecasts of my flesh, my bones?
And I’m being loved shorter,
And when I listen to the priest on Sunday,
he tells me that if it were up to my sins
there’d be a hundred and fifty days of January,
none at all in July.
Maybe there’s thieves about,
casing my calendar,
stealing the warm from me.
Or snow-men, years since I made one,
intent on making me.