November

 
The kettle's on the hearth    
there's a mizzle on the hill  
the cows wind down the lane    
the jams cool on the sill  
    
The clocks have turned the corner    
and the field mice burrow deep  
the holly's red with murder    
as old tawny stirs from sleep  
    
At sea the Barber rages    
scattering the shoals  
the boats sigh on the shingles    
their nets dry in the holds  
    
The wind's up whacking chimneys    
planning winter's first attack  
if only I'd stood bolder
I'd thump the Devil back