After the Clocks Go Back

Life leaks through
a closed window:
televisions murmur,
someone is playing piano,  
and fragile voices fly
into a gunmetal sky.
We sip tea, numb,
slip down the back
of the settee, join
fluff and crumbs.
All colour has faded
except the russet
of the marmalade cat,
and we are stifled
by the musty flat,
clinging shadows,
unwashed clothes,
waiting for winter
to crawl away,
longing for light spring rain
in the middle of the day.