we sigh and
we stamp our feet,
rub our hands,
red cheeks aflame
our breath makes clouds,
and 'What's the matter?'
And the clouds are extinguished flames,
which billow into being from our blistering breaths,
rising straight toward the white sun,
straight on upwards.
Downward cast eyes,
scrunching our noses with cheeks like red roses,
And the cold is everywhere, everywhere.
and what are we waiting for?
In this God-awful cold?
And there is some humour in your eye.
A secret, which you rub in your hands
whisper into those white breath-clouds,
and upwards it billows,
as we sigh and wait in the cold, cold air.