Umbrellas. Rain. Across the evening bridge
late people, huddled in their coats, go home
while all reflection's lost. The river's thrashed
by drifting sheets of joyless water, blown
before a grim east wind. Last summer's glass
got tarnished; now it's all turned dark. The first
few lights come on like scattered candles, dim
unseeing eyes that show the distant bank
and brighten as the last faint daylight fades...
Soon we'll be making damp spots on the mat
in what we once called home - but since your eyes
no longer brighten with the growing dark
it's nothing but a roof, a dry refuge
from rain and wind, but cold, a cold that will
no more be lessened by a sudden spark.