we've had an assortment of
weather
four seasons converging
together
whence I awoke there
was a coolish
nip
with associated cloud
like winter's
grip
by noon I dressed
in a light
blouse
for the air felt similar
to a summer
rouse
late eve bought
an autumn
feel
south east winds
blew upon my worn
keel
as night approaches
the true spring
lilt
is dancing around
my trunk's
silt

will be interesting to see
what's on tomorrow's
isotherms
as the climes vary in their
statement of
terms

Like a maestro on her rostrum
she waves her arms, conducting
a symphony of clouds and sun,
synchronizing showers with sleet and snow.

Or a white witch casting her spells
on Lakeland fells and Pendle Hill,
from Morecambe Bay to Liverpool,
where slave ghosts haunt the cotton coast,
from Merseyside to Manchester,
then chants she changes over Cheshire.

She weaves her isotherms and bars
through the warp and weft of our map,
wreathing those Western Approaches,
where siren sea nymphs shimmer.

I think we are freezing
in castles made of ice.

In a stalemate of frigid disconnect
from the obscure glance of one person into space .
For connection, to anything but in heat,
is null.

We both reside in doomed cubes
of store bought freeze packs. Until, a single rub
sanctions my day to the friction of your eyes
and our feet against the ground
fracture the isothermal lines, our connect and our
divide

Constant contortion in puddles of time,
the havoc of equalized warmth
wreaks the kingdom of loneliness.
And isotherms becomes the ultimate
agents of demise.