Writing my young name ...

It was time this morning for A Fisherman's Friend -

The red wounded beast was cocooned in ice - 

I could have been in Volgodonsk, driving a Zhiguli for the Mafiya -  

The lawns were white with frost - 

The apple tree cast a frozen shadow - 

The pale blue sky was cloudless -  a white jet flew towards the sun - 

I sucked the potent lozenge - 

I remembered winters when the snow had fallen - 

I'd sat in the small lounge, my face pressed up against the window, watching silence fall upon the world - 

I'd breathed upon the glass, and written my young name there - 

09.00

Thursday 5 January 2017

The Old School House

East Stoke

Dorset