Shoulders against the cold
Give me hoar-frost,
fogged and rimey windows,
glittered mint-cake pavements.
The sea a churning grey, in a lovesong
to point nine on the Beaufort Scale;
a landscape dogged by low-slung clouds and
brackish branches dancing out into
the end of time.
Delete my memories of hazy,
beachfronts pimped with Lowry people
in an Instagram-filtered throng.
Strip all trees of roaming leaves,
and stagger their witchy fingers against the sky;
pack blossom away,
pressed and dried, in
confetti boxes for some other day.
Huddle shoulders against the cold and
forget how hard it feels to
breathe in summer -
where cups of tea sit redundant and sad,
old-fashioned in the shadow of lurid
Coat parkland with a sheen of silver,
icing rooftops and freezing pools,
an everyday Narnia where
sugared snow meets coats and hair with dusted, brittle love.
Push suncream smells into the void,
with barbecues and burns,
save instead the beautiful tang of morning cold.
Collect up radiators, scarves and mugs and soups and boots:
and give them five months of fame.