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Scraped my steps today,
metal shovel ringing off ice and wood,
grey sky trying to set the mood,
while weather forecast red
with a snowfall warning.
My sweat, sore back
all to be repeated,
giving winter more meaning
than sonnets on old age —
death’s cold fingers
still reaching towards me,
but a little further than before.
Nailed it, Richard.
And on that cheerful note, we start the week . . .
Oh yes. Here in the UK snow and ice have been mainly absent this winter but I can remember it! Too much water and flooding have been our difficulties.
Short. Bitter. Sweet. Excellent.