Armed with Patience


Icicle fingers

Spring just around the corner

They’ll melt soon enough


Early One Cold Morning


(Credit: jurien huggins on Unsplash)


A toe poking out

From under the covers, but

It’s withdrawn at once.


Old Man Winter


(Credit: Tim Schramm on Unsplash)


The sun fights for warmth.

Though winter is growing old,

His grasp is still strong.


Running on Ice


(Credit: Isaac Wendland on Unsplash)


Slipping and sliding

Still, I refuse to be a

Fair-weather runner.


Shocking Cold



If you knock on my door

Or call me today, only

Slime will answer you


Long Shadows


(Credit: Simson Petrol on Unsplash)


The shadows are long

Although it’s near twelve o’clock

Here in the cold north


I Got a Cold


(Credit: elizabeth lies on Unsplash)


The food is tasteless

Even salty liquorice

Is stopped by the snot



(Credit: Wikipedia)

(Credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been thinking about how one could write a story about a radiator. This was the first idea I had:


The radiator had been cold for a long time, and it did not understand why. It could remember warmth faintly as something that filled it up with comfort and longed to feel it again. One day a family moved into the house. They turned the heat up as far as it would go. The radiator enjoyed the warmth spreading through it, and for a while it was just as comfortable as it remembered, but then it felt like it was on fire.


The next idea I had was about a radiator that escapes its house, goes off to see the world and ends up living in a dump with an old fridge.

The third idea will get its own post.




With lips bluer than robin’s eggs, he stood as still as his shivers would allow, looking out at where sea and sky met, forcing his thoughts away from the water caressing his midriff.

They watched him from the shore. Some of them shouted at him at first, but they soon got tired of that. In fact, they soon go tired of the whole thing and one by one they left.

Twenty minutes after the last one left, his eyes closed and he slumped into the water. Coughing and gasping, he struggled to his feet and looked at the shore, fearing jeers and laughter. The silence was somehow worse.


After The Snowstorm In The Forest...!!!

After The Snowstorm In The Forest. (Photo credit: Denis Collette.)

The stinging is like a hundred small knights charging into my face with their lances. I can hear others smash against the trees though the stems are only slightly blacker shadows in the dark. I am being half throttled by the old sweat and wood smoke from my scarf, but it is better than being chocked by the wind. I pull my hood further down and struggle forwards, barely able to see the ground in front of me.

If I had had a horse, I might have risked huddling close to it and waiting for the storm to pass, but I have no horse and my fingers and toes have gone numb.

There should be an inn close by. I remember stopping there a couple of years back. The giggling Ploughman it was called. A ridiculous name, but it was warm and light.

The stinging stops and I wonder how the hail could cease so suddenly. I blink and then I see the light between the trees. I jog towards it and it is all warm and soft, so I close my eyes.

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