As did the hairs in my nose.
It must sound ungrateful
To wish to see a summer seagull.
I have a good roof over my head,
And with each day, I’m satisfactorily fed.
But it’s unlike a man to complain
And to magnify his pain.
I’ve chosen to live where the winter bites,
Where the silence of falling snow excites.
The weather marks the passing seasons
As convent cemeteries mark black-robed nuns.
And spring will surely arrive
For those given enough months of life.
S.A. Bort / 3 December 2014