Sunday Poetry by Piyali Basu

November, and We say it Winter

On a dripping day that never really wakens, when the sun is weak behind the line of my very own Dublin city, that day You had finished with our five year's span, and the blizzard of the scrutching room that gave Me only layers of sorrows,...that gnawing hour, I can remember Winter. . Winter is not about Blackbirds landing in a lichened birch— nor did it mean a flowery and snowy Christmas. . Winter rather reminds me of Notions of sex and smells of orange peel To me, Winter is about those love bites and fingernails and the clamour of broken glass . Winter is actually some coppery gutters and that painful stomach ulcer which I deplete each November.

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