Winter Cold

Winter Cold*snow*



Snuggled up under my "poorly" blanket, with the world at bay,

Eyes streaming, nose running, feverish brow, shivering limbs,

Sore throat, rasping coughs leaving me breathless, with nothing to say,

Feeling sorry for myself, dwelling on the past and all my sins.



Whilst outside my window, the wind has stripped the trees bare,

Leaving them with their skeletal limbs communing with the sky,

Waiting for the silent snow to make them once again fair,

As the intricate floating flakes coat the branches with a whispering sigh.



The hot steaming lemon drink with honey slides down my throat,

Coating the soreness with its smooth, molten taste, like liquid gold.

The analgesic catches the edge of my consciousness, casting it afloat,

Head lolling back on the pillow, body enveloped in the blanket’s fold.



The freezing cold wind rises in a long, haunting, mournful sound,

Swirling the freshly fallen snow up into flurries and rising drifts.

The artic cold freezes the water that lies in puddles on the ground,

Making the heat inside seem like one of life’s most precious gifts.



So I drift warm and cocooned into the peace of healing sleep,

Banishing the judgement of past sins to another time, another place.

With no sins to confess, no atonement to make and no tears to weep

I give myself up willingly to the arms of Morpheus’ tender embrace.