Pink stains on a grey Winter sky
Strip-teases the communal lawn
Yet still the orange-red rowan berries
Hang heavy from the bare grey-green twig-branches
The haunting magpies, too cumbrous
For their fragile perches,
Seek refuge on the dripping roof-guttering.
A plastic greenhouse, serving no purpose,
Fades into the brick-red backdrop
Where rows of square-eyed windows
Pry the privacy of my single pane.
The pink fades as darkness overwhelms.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon.
Drawing the curtains, I fold myself away
Perhaps then, when I look out
On another late November day
I will have a different viewpoint;
More pink than grey.