In Winter

This morning's pavement ice invites
a broken hip as, wrapped up tight
against the gripping wind, I walk

with penguin steps towards the beach,
my dog in tow, to watch the sick
grey waves fold to dishwater foam.

The seaside counts for nothing, now
that summer's lease is spent and fall
has given up the ghost and fled,

just as the ruffled robin, that
pecks at an icy puddle, looks
more at home on the Christmas card

the postman brings, a flash of red
when all is bloodless, cold and dead.