It’s that time when you may find me grim.
When absent leaves will render branches bare
and sodden pigeons seek forlorn retreat.
Only a lonely troubadour thrush sings.
You see me hunched against the morning chill
as condensation dribbles down, I make
a sideways swipe to foil the downward run
as gentle room heat slowly ghosts all trace.
You stand behind me though I do not hear,
your whispers stray as memory wanders past.
You know I seek to find the long lost thread,
touch me once more that I may feel your warmth,
then, as my towelled hand wipes the glass, I think
I catch a glimpse, so faint – you leave again.