The cold wet air through flesh and bone,
shudders life to winter’s icy grasp,
and while mists of rain and grey surrounds
envelop mind and moods so low, profound,
as day in languid flow prevails.
Bleak days in contiguous run,
lose time as weighted clouds do press the sun,
to cower back where skies once were,
and let the season of chilled refrain, endure,
as days into each other meld.
Sit do I by fireside,
drawing warmth from flame and ember,
while droplets fall from window panes,
all frosted condensation on the other side the rain,
dose beat its patter like rustic tunes.
And outside the streets are in haze,
a white and dense fog of icy wet refute,
and no-one dares to greet the day
instead they hide as I inside by fire take,
what simple warmth it proffers,
Beast my cat asleep all day upon my rumpled bed,
cares not for rain and chilled fresh air,
when dreams are given everywhere,
inside my heated room he’ll stay,
until a better form of day is offered.
Chilled is day, sun’s decay,
and winter has its moment.
Tony DeLorger © 2016