the blizzard
laced its silvery
fingers into mine:
delicate and soft
but disguised
as the frigid,
stinging, touch
of death

an array of
glistening crystals
slept on the
unblemished, shimmering
snow

and the air was vast
and pure—
just like the soul
of the ice
itself
*-C.C

outside, rain drizzles down
from the grey sky
droplets race down the foggy windows and
splatter onto the ground
any form of colour is lathered
with a layer of cold rain
double-decker buses race through puddles
on the cobblestone roads
the streets are full of nothing but black umbrellas
hurriedly, people clad in dark raincoats
scurry to soaked doormats and creaking doors
there is light conversation in the coffee shops
and hot tea is served

this is the true london.
*-C.C