The air is cold, the wind is crisp
It howls by night and seeps by day
Through tiny cracks that none can see
But the malicious spirit, living there
In every gale, breeze, gust and blow
Seeking holes it might squeeze through
Seeking warmth to suck outside
Seeking steam to whisk away
Finding you, though you may hide
Settling in and there to stay
Who is this grim, silent guest, uninvited?
Whose is the presence that sits there so still?
The pale man, the wailing white slip of a child?
The air seems to freeze all around them, grow icy
The figures move slowly, as though made of stone
The thin hand stretches to brush dust from the sill
There flourishes a pattern of spirals
Of dots and of flowers, chrystaline, clear
That covers the glass like a thin second skin
The pane through which there comes the sound
Of the wind still howling and rattling to enter
I can no longer listen
To that high, plaintive wail!
Take me away from here, over the mountains
Take me far from this gloomy dark place
Carry me over valleys, over wheat fields and hills
Let me feel the warmth of the sun on my face
Let the summer evening air
Rake mild fingers through my hair
The air is cold, the wind is crisp
The sky is white, or clear and grey
If the sun chanced to show his reluctant face
I would be grateful, I’d laugh and I’d smile
But the sun does not hear me
He cowers beyond the tufty, iron-grey clouds
Like one bedridden and desperately ill
Oh, if only the air were not so terribly still!
If at least plenty of fluffy white flakes were to float
Down with the wind, that dancing, thin phantom
To lay on the land, its pearly, soft blanket
That it has slumbered too long without
But snow it does not, and the rain deigns not either
To fall from the heavens, the clear, frigid grey sky
And pierce this everlasting, rattling breath of our guest, the wind
Who knocks, still at the frost-covered window outside
I draw the curtains but can do nothing to keep
The cold fingers from prying
The crannies and gaps
Wide enough open, to let in chill, cackling whisps
That flood and cool, that climb and creep
It’s too cold here, it’s sad and it’s dry
Let me go somewhere with bright, clear blue skies
Where I can sit and listen
To the crashing of waves
Against the fine, toasty sand
Let me just lay there a while in the light
And breathe the warm, salty sea air
The air is cold, the wind is crisp
Things have been robbed, have been leeched of their colour
The grass lies dull when it used to stand
Tall and proud, of emerald green
The trees above it hang their branches
Degectedly down
Twigs like claws grasp deperately
At grey passers-by, in a pathetic plea
For anyone able to lure out the sun
And have this grey, windy winter over and done
Usher the icy, grim guest back to his lair
He has outstaid his welcome by days innumerable
He has sat there and waited, on his ricketty chair
For me, though then I knew it not
To draw back the curtains and open the window
For him to climb out and in to come
The glowing warm yellow, the light of the sun
That gently laid, upon my weary pale face
A hopeful smile, a touch of grace
A spark in my eye, a spring in my pace
As out, into the cold air and crisp wind I lean
To check whether it truly is as it seems:
There flutters by a red-breasted, cheery creature
“A robin! A robin!” I call to myself
It hops on a branch, glad that soon
The world will reside in this year’s noon
Violets will once more nod delicate heads
Brooks will unfreeze and babble and rush
Roses will bloom, their plump buds will blush
The robin loops and it glides, twittering gladly
Carried through the cold air by the crisp winter wind