Killing Time

I can almost pretend I’m elsewhere.

Half past four, the light nearly gone,

like that afternoon walk in Leicester Square

when I was filled with dark joy.

The cold and damp bone deep

in that pervasive London way.

I grew up in an oppressive climate,

air leaden with hiss and moisture.

I envy regions with short days,

chart weather patterns

for low-lying clouds and threats of rain.

I am the reverse of seasonal affective disorder –

turn out the lights.

Autumn comes later now,

thanks to politicians and lobbyists

with nothing better to do than kill time.

Day lingers as landscapes turn gray,

the wind in the leaves telegraphing

in cracks and shudders

for the night to come.