The two old men sitting on the park bench
look in opposite directions
across the scuffled snow.
Both have hats, neither wears gloves.
Scarves are tucked into overcoats.
Their hands must be cold
and their feet too in the thin leather shoes.
Then they turn and look towards each other;
their eyes smile
and their fingers touch.
The ice-blue air is suddenly less bitter.
Tomorrow they will be here again.
traffic lockdown light
pavements glisten as night falls
her eyes sparkle bright
the sun is paler than the milky sky
the winter east wind cuts faces deep
empty grey days stretch out ahead of us
empty days stretch out grey ahead of us
the world still turns
the geese remind me
they will be back you know
you tell me
and we shall see them
“Summer is coming”
spray tan smiles don’t reach her eyes
winter still lives here
nightingale morning
air glass cold
cloud-free sky warning
fortunes untold
sleeping warriors
winter winds gather the true
in the west light dies
fog lifts to show snow on hills
the folly’s columns are silhouette
clarity of view and thought
sun arrows down from cloudless skies
winter wind bringing ice to skin
in the distance the hill burns
birdsong perfectly shaped takes flight
clotted clouds cover discoloured skies
winter thoughts are fleeing spring
