Superstitious Months

No snow. Still. Each breath in tastes like needles. No colour and I cannot remember the sky but there is still no snow. I wonder if winter freezes time... if the plunged (drowned) temperature is a cousin to absolute zero. Time a physical plane, and the colder it gets the less time flows... and it seems to have been cold forever.
The river is made of transparent concrete.
Some summers seem to last forever too though. Deep August fever and everything tasting of cut grass and typhoid, hot tarmac and ice-cream. August like a set of steps through an abandoned building whose decay has stilled. Last month of summer and no movement and the last month of winter and no movement either.
These superstitious months are cousins. Mirror-twins.
Sat on the sofa in the living room earlier, wearing my leather jacket and still too cold. Occasional expeditions to the window to look for signs of snow but still none. I had a shower and dreaded getting out and even in the steam that fogged the bathroom like eye-strain I could still feel winter.
And the Old Shoreham Road swings through these days, scythe-like. I haven't walked it in months, but that black stretch of road in my memory is heavy with these days; the bridge, the walled wood, the electricity substation, -site of strange excavations, occult archaeology, deep digging, and orange tape round the railings.
the dark promise of a field
she looks back and the summer-blue
tastes of the distance in a France
i have never seen
I still don't dream in these nights, and in the mornings as I walk to work the boughs of the trees are jagged and upright, knives to cut the sky, bleed the blue from the seas we can no longer recall.
I have not walked there for months.
i am afraid the sea will kill me
Something I wrote in a notebook back in 1998.
In summers that seemed like winter and lasted forever.