In England, Late October
Fog falls around the chimney stacks, and slides
in hollows flanked by houses and oak trees
while muting sound and wrapping all inside;
a time of ash-grey smell of rain and smoke.
I'm shelling peas I picked before the frost
etched patterns on the window pane. I'll bake
some red potatoes, heat up last night's roast
and bring in coal before the evening fades.
It's time to sit beside the fire, knitting socks,
reading from a stack of library books. Time
for one last look outside before I turn the lock
and close the drapes, to keep the cold of autumn
out. I'll wind the clock lest time evaporate
when sleep seduces and my mind escapes.
Linda Conroy, a retired social worker, is an observer of people and places and finds them a rich resource for the creation of poetry. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Washington 129 digital edition, Poeming Pigeon, The Penwood Review, and Raven Chronicles, as well as in a previous edition of Shot Glass Journal.