, ,

The hot water to the house froze,

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