Winter has settled in, claustrophobic grey
over a carpet of leaves I never bothered to pile.
I've left them to do their whispering in peace.
It looks like rain, and it's cold.
The mailman hasn't come yet;
the difference that makes is none.
Last night I dreamt my father called
to say that Noah's Ark had run ashore,
empty save one gender-balanced pair.
He said the olive crop was poor this year
and the dove can find no branch
that can bear the long trip home.