Outside the window the snow continued
to blanket the field, smothering the hedge,
weighting the spindly hawthorn and ash.

The wood hissed in the grate.
Smoke spiralled malevolently from damp logs,
yet the hearth and beer were welcome as our due.

The long river walk, battling the sleet;
the lights, flushed faces and welcome heat
of home, fair reward for the journey.

Coats, gloves and boots steamed in the corner
as we stretched our toes in damp socks
towards the fire gathering power in the grate.

Outside the window, the snow continued
to shroud the banks, and the sleepy river
pushed deeper with white shoulders.

Pushed over the weir, through Morgan’s field,
pushed into the village clothed in vestal white,
that innocently smothers and extinguishes life.