Winter Evening
At four o’clock
the winter sun
dodges the sullen mattress of the overcast
blazes an instant glory
and subsides
to smudge the west with rust.
Where are the plans
that made this morning special?
the hopes that made
the getting out of bed worthwhile?
Altered by circumstance
and winter lethargy,
trimmed by the humdrum,
but partly realised (if that),
half done,
at best.
Now understand,
the evening,
life is,
and always was,
each hazy and uncertain day,
a trusting,
hand-in-hand with God,
a step-by-step affair.
And anyway,
The sun will rise tomorrow.
FRANCIS BUXTON
