Talking to the wind

These paid-for therms want out
Up against the glass.
I feel their pane
And wipe their tears.

The free air touches cold
All along the frame,
Looks in again
And sees the smears.

Now browning leaves stick tight
Down across the sill.
I can explain,
Just calm your fears!

I pay to keep them in,
D’you realise?
It starts to rain
And no-one hears.




Dec. 2019

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Filed under Arts, My poems, Poetry

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