By this time you will have risen,
stepped outside and sniffed the cold,
exhaling vapour into mist
that drifts across the autumn glen,
scuffing aside sloughed-off russet
after-images of leaves,
eyeing thinning canopies
of sycamores that line the drive.
I've never seen you in the snow,
and yet the russet, gold, cerise,
attach themselves also to winter
imagery's accents and notes:
robin's breast and holly berries,
crimson mittens, pomegranates -
glowing coals of longing
for a dream remote as Camelot.