Struggling

In the still months,

the seagulls remain along the seafront

and search the estuary for food at low tide.

The tepid sun tracks the southern arc

and casts a glow light onto the

bark of the wintering birch.

What I am trying to say

is that sunlight, in winter,

casts a golden hue from its

southernmost position in the sky.

And that hue, unique to the winter,

is glorious in a way not found in summer.

I’m just struggling to say it.