When cold clings to your bones with painful fingers.
You go for a lunch-walk to watch the sun set.
The clouds shroud so heavily you can’t tell if it is day yet.
Dark tendrils enclose your space the ceiling light fights a battle lost.

The steam from your soup bowl fogs your vision.
Hard rimmed bread softened in salty broth.
A warm hug and friend’s presence brighten the grey day.
There is no such thing as too many blankets.

Wrapped up like a porcelain doll ready for shipping.
Only the nose and eyes emerge; clouds of breath hang over our heads.
Laughs muffled by thick scarves.
Our steps crunch on frozen ground or kick bursts of snow into the air.

We enter the house with much exclamation and stomping of cold feed.
Rubbing numb hands, and shaking off the frost as if we were still fur covered beasts.
Warm blankets snug around the body lest any air touches shivering skin.
Book in hand, a hot cuppa, and a candle the night may fall now—again.

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I was invited to write a contribution to wintering in academia and became stuck half way through my essay and ended up writing a poem. … of course