(To quote Michaela; “I just love wearing big jumpers.”)

The coming of winter

.

It is not the loss of light

It is the revealing

Of a candle’s flame

.

It is not the loss of leaves

It is the finest tracery

Fingering a steel-grey sky

.

It is not the vice of ice

But the delicious itch of scarf, and

Air stratified by woodsmoke

.

It is not incessant soaking rain

But a musical blessing to be found

Behind window panes

.

It is not cruelty

It is a jubilee, when rested lands, like

human hands, fall fallow

.

It is not cold

It is a well-stoked fire

Drawing both of us closer