October

always arrives a wet dog coughing

like dawn doors in the gloom

or axe on wood


days end early too

my conker socket eyes

stare up at lower suns

dead things turn white bellied

toward the North



and first frost expected

thought lost

etched in laced dreams of glass

edges iced



and a letter to a lover

penned from the front line

ripped open eagerly

as snow falls smiling