It
is perishing cold
inside
and out
the
hard weather the
deep
Welsh winter
brings
with it
a
survivalist spirit
even
as pubs are closing
seven
to the dozen
and
village halls
everywhere
deader
than a teenage disco
can't
even raise a raffle
forget
soup or song
the
stone houses
stay
mostly sealed or sold
the
old neighbours
soft
as gold
and
good as bread
lie
embedded like coal
in
their bunkers
always
at war
when
it comes to winter
and
who could blame them
it
is so cold
the
bus shelters are free
of
feral youngsters
the
cars are encased in
unkeyable
ice
and
the road sticks to trainers
slowing
their pace
in
a getaway
the
breath and glow of cars
and
cigarette smoke
smears
and rolls
and
hangs wherever people
bravely
risk the road
as
dusk falls
round
again
within
what seems like hours
it
feels as though
even
the light itself is
perishing
that
even the brightest stars
are
growing colder
over
a dark winter bay
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