The Indoor Winter
He disappears behind the unspent rubble of the day
and a dimmed window.
Fits his neck
and waits without waiting.
He leans forward with his green eyes,
An indoor winter collects faces at the bar,
ignoring his soon-to-be father eyes.
The long brides take shape at the bottom of the glass,
across the aisles of his years.
The long brides linger and then retreat.
He stares like a stabbed man
at the casualties which falter against the loneliness of the snow.
Foy Timms is a poet and writer based in Reading, Berkshire. She also works as a Fundraiser in the Third Sector.