December Approaching in Essex

The train station. The bus shelters.
The cold November light of streetlights,
neon boards, wrought-iron fences
fencing in a forest of chromium shells.

Pictures of my unspent youth
reading Bond novels at train stations.
Walking home and glancing at windows,
sometimes with TVs on inside.

The arse-end of the Christian year
exampled by the branded Christmas cards
in charity shops, Christmas music
gaining pace; and grumbling about it all.

December comes to Essex like a pall,
the cloth devouring each house and stall.