35. English winter.

It’s been silent, so silent
walking the disused
snow-hushed traintrack
this afternoon,
till a robin sings then flits away
to another branch
as we approach.
Twilight’s already falling as a blanket
from a dark blue starry sky
and a silver sliver of moon peeks through
and we’ve still a mile to go.
Out of the lonely unsettling fields
and into the near distance we see
the edge of the village;
windows warm with an amber glow
and people seen and disappear inside.
Beyond them we walk
through snow-dead streets
& the noise & the heat & the woodsmoke
smell escapes
as I lift the latch at The Fox
and we go inside
to reminisce
by the crackling fire.