A Wintry Wail

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I don’t tend to believe those who purport
to ‘love the rain’; it’s a terrible, nasty business. It’s the
lifeblood of colds, misery, all things grey
and is a principal adversary to my favourite sport.

Glasgow, situated in the ‘arctic north’ – so
denounced by a Cornish no-gooder – unleashes
its share of wet, cold, bitter, angry elements
upon the sturdy people of the city. I do not
count myself among the sturdy.

I feel cold grip my hands like vices sculpted
from ice and sufferance. Snow envelopes my mind and
when the rain comes, my spirit races up
its fortified rabbit hole and hibernates in secret.

Wrapped in my 15-tog cocoon, central heating on
full I fumble through every winter.
The front door is a portal to frost-nip and
remains barricaded by reluctance and
“being a bit of a Jessie”.

But when the sun returns to my ‘Arctic North’ I
delight in seeing the glaciers melt. Let them
fall. Let them splinter, shake, shatter and let warm grass
and full-stick pavements reign supreme.

Sometimes the world will throw you a bone.
For some it does this every year, before snatching
it away, nine months down the line with leafless trees.
The sun is my bone, and I’ll treasure her as long
As she is willing to warm my skin.

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