December The month when the dark breeds. At midday the sun clears the tenements just enough to glance a five minute side-light at the white under-wing of a seagull, circling and circling as if it knows this is no time to be earth-bound. The earth clutches at the living with dank insistence, dragging down and down, buries all hope and growth in rotting leaves, neatly heaping chilly skeletons for the dark’s reconstruction.
Ruth Aylett (Previously published in Right Hand Pointing)
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