BLACKBIRD IN THE FOG

                                 

Tall trees reach up into greyness.
Humans and dogs
overlook me. I am practically invisible.

Passing cars leave a trail of white.
Red bus
the only coloured thing,

and even that appears faded
as the embers of a dying fire
almost obscured by ash.

Frost-encrusted primulas in a window box.
My bones, too, are stiffened with coldness
in a garden no longer welcoming.

Hunger. The seed and fat balls,
rendered inedible by frozen fog, are lost -
like me - in the depths of winter's abyss.