When a winter morning dons a grey cloak,
And heavy clouds melt into slushy rain,
The air smells of languid and soggy smoke,
And frigid fingers spark shivers again.
When gelid almost-snow touches my face,
The cold liquid quickly drips down my skin,
Soaks into my collar, leaving no trace
Of the chilling effect it has within.
Stiff fingers grow numb from the flowing cold,
Despite the thick, heavy glove on each hand.
My coat is not warm, or I’m growing old,
And my frozen toes make it hard to stand.
Yet, I’ll endure this bleak, chilly weather,
If you and I can shiver together.
Mick McKellar
December 2015
It seems such a short time ago that winter’s cold fingers could never touch me…
Mick
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