Winter loudly cracks its bony knuckles,

Before extending its icy fingers

Across the land.

Fields, once lush, and verdant,

Now frozen,

Blades, stiff, and stabbing skyward

On village ponds,

Graceless ducks

Slip slide their way

To hidden nests

To seek some warmth

Today.

Below, in the bay,

No children play,

No portly fathers,

In sandals and socks,

No sunburned mothers,

It seems a wolfish bay.

Up in the town,

Cold shop windows frown

Bereft of warmth and customers, alike.

But in the lane, behind the busy bakers,

Two lovers are entwined, as one,

They are the warmth of winter.

                                           _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn