Blizzard-busy, the marching spike
Of inken flakes in a human-form.
Outside, littered about, all like
Those little glazed cobbles, autumn-worn—

Adorning coffee morning frames,
A window into many faces—
Memories made in spite of names
Not learnt in unfamiliar places.

A man, no younger than the birch
Liaising with clubfooted culver
Across the street—his...