Seasons


There’s a hush in the wood,
As nature settles down.
Bracing against wind and rain
While winter comes around.

Then green fades to brown,
That succumbs to white.
Frost decorates the trees,
As winter’s jaws bite.

Cold on the Bus


snow on bus

It’s cold on the bus this morning,
Frost coats the inside of the window.
Making my morning commute,
A chilly mystery tour.
Cold breath escapes mouths,
Rising slovenly into the air.
As hands huddle in pockets
While collars are all turned up.
I scratch at the glass,
Wondering where we are.
Cars shoot by, cosy wombs of warmth,
Sparking jealously as I shiver.
My iPod plays summer songs,
Fake warmth into my ears
While my toes cringe
As winter bites hard.
I contemplate getting my pen out
To commit my cold to paper
Thinking better of it
My hands remain in my pocket’s toasty nests.
Cold doesn’t inspire, or does it?
Does nature’s chill not slow synapses
But instead produce
A hot spark of creativity?
Surely without the inspiration of cold,
We’d never have discovered fire?
Lucky ancestors I think
As I wonder when I’ll arrive and feel warm again.