Winter Wherwell

The tired summer retreats to surrender,
As the clouds gather to darken the skies,
Smoke billows from every chimney,
As the warm fire glows inside.

A lonely man walks the street,
Followed closely by a wave of frost,
The song of birds is a distant memory,
Like the days we long to relive.

Clothes left on the radiator,
Or ironed that very morn,
They warm the skin,
But chill the spine.

We all complain about the cold,
Bracing winds and icy roads,
Wrap up warm in scarf and gloves,
Two pairs of socks to save the toes.

But if you look beyond the frost,
Your senses will regale,
And you will see that a winter Wherwell,
Is not bitter, just cold.

Scott Blackmore