Winter in Wimbledon

No daffodil songs
no roses that bloom
sunshine don’t enter
this
cold lonely room

scents can’t get in,
no sense in them trying,
trying to blot out
the sound of my crying

Locks on the windows
bars on the door
four inches of concrete
that they call the floor,
but there’s a crack in the wall
enough to see through
and I see the sky
a dark shade of blue.

Sounds are muted or
maybe it’s just me
who cannot quite hear
and
can
only see.

it is cold though
and
that’s no mistake
sunshine don’t enter
it makes my bones ache.

It’s psychosomatic or that’s
what I’m told

I still think
that Wimbledon’s
too bloody
cold.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.