Hard frost,

Crisp air,

Late.

Brake pads grate, door slams shut

and then I see.... smell....

the black bag,

smouldering heap of black char, half-burnt remnants,

from where ? we ask each other airing displeasure.

I poke the contents for some answer-

flame sculpted ugly mess.

Enquiries reveal the early morning presence of a man

unknown and doorway slept,

an invisible shadow- moved on now, like the lazy rising smoke,

who in his freezing ,waking hour, found comfort in the refuse.

I turned his image in my mind and doused the grey-black ash to melting pools,

my anger softened.