Winter

Crisp and cold, the clarity of the Winter sun.

Trees, almost bare, dotted sparsely with a few resiliant leaves.

With hands burrowed deep in their pockets,

Noses blown to brilliant red by a bristling wind,

The people pass by.

 

I too have my hands burrowed deep in my pockets.

My shoulders hunched against the cold.

My nose gradually chilled to dresden blue.

I see the delicate ice drawings, now inside my window.

The people pass by.

 

Children dart around, wrapped in a myriad of colours,

With layers of warm woollens, looking a picture of health.

Their cheeks glowing with cherubic innonence.

The people pass by.

 

Layers of woollens coccoon my frail body,

Each joint painfully swollen; wear and tear they say.

The fire feebly forcing out a wane warmth.

It will be tough fighting another winter.

The people pass by.