Written as a late letter, the poem reads like a short, honest report on a hard year. The speaker says trouble has "settled in," as if it were a houseguest who has no plans to leave. From there the losses pile up, and they are a mix of the large and the small: dying languages, "ordinary doors," and friends. The speaker seems to mourn not only people but a whole texture of everyday life that is fading.
The last line is the oddest. "A calf's head at cards" is strange and hard to pin down. It might hint at a lost game, a bad hand, or some old, rural way of life, but the poem doesn't explain, and it's best to treat it as a puzzle rather than force an answer. "Time is no old token" suggests that time isn't a keepsake to hold onto; it is something that costs us.
The mood is sombre but restrained. Nothing is shouted. The short lines and plain wording make the grief feel tired, private, and quietly stubborn.