Slipping on the sixth step

There is a cat on the stairs, who stands and stares 
as I slip on the sixth step; 
my joints as stiff as his smile. 

I slip, he topples, dents and bruises bloom;
 whilst in the downstairs room the TV mutters,
masking my tumble . 

These darkening days of Winter,
 that pleat skies with heavy cloud, 
and breathe river mists over garden walls; 

slow all motion.

The numbing cold and damp transforms me 
into a stumbling creature,
 graceless and disjointed;
swathed in wools and cashmeres 
to ward off the slowly creeping stiffness 
that seeps deep into bone 
and lingers like rust on a gently rotting hull.