1742 in the middle of March

Night is creeping downwards,
day becomes a sinking greyness which flutters
and sighs into a deathly drowning.

The sally song of the daytime birds
is smothered by the blackness.
A choking cover of hometime hours
are stifling their chirpy spirits.

A crispening chill seeps through the air
accompanying the darkness.
Collared coats, scarves and hats,
boots and thermal undies.

Knifelike drops of painful rain
begin to stab my forehead
and heap salty pain into my eyes
to underline the season.

The splashing sounds car tyres make;
their wooshing, swooshing, spinning
are comforting but emphasise the
dreary winter timing.

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